Текст книги "The Weight of Rain"

Автор книги: Mariah Dietz

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“WE SHOULD try riding in the shop tomorrow.” Mercedes’ voice is filled with a hope that I hate being the one to break, but getting back on a bike has held little interest for me. Rather than feeling braver or more eager about the prospect, the mere idea makes my heart thrum and my palms grow sweaty. I had relented to the idea and rode around the backyard which is a mostly level expanse of wet leaves.

“I like watching you ride. Besides, I have to keep my arms out of casts since my job and education both rely on them.”

“You can’t scare yourself. You did so well!”

“I’m not scaring me. The giant cement pool does that.”

Mercedes shakes her head, rolling her eyes. I know she’s about to let the control freak in her spout attitude, because she’s balled her small fists and stamped them on either hip. “You’re being ridiculous. If you quit everything because it’s scary, how far would you ever get in this world?” Her green eyes are wide, waiting for my reply.

“When did you start listening to anything an adult says?” I tease. “I have to get going. I have a scene I have to finish that I’m dreading. We can argue about this tomorrow.”

Her scowl falls as the front door opens and a loud hello is called.

“Uncle King!” Mercedes sprints down the hall, her sock-covered feet sliding along the wood floors, nearly making her lose her balance, which elicits giggles, and rather than slow down she speeds up.

“Easy, monkey. No breaking bones on my watch. Remember?” His voice is deep and warm, with a slight trace of gravel, much like Mercedes’.

My heartbeat is still accelerated from watching her Evel Knievel sprint down the hallway as I watch her wrap around his waist, her head tilting back as she laughs. He’s tall—taller than Kash—and wearing skater shoes, a pair of black and gray plaid shorts, and a black hoodie, along with a black baseball hat that’s shadowing his face as he looks down at his niece.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. His voice paints an image of burlap in my mind with the soft roughness.

“Yeah, Lo doesn’t know how to cook,” Mercedes says.

“Lo?”

“My new nanny,” she explains, sounding burdened by the question. “Come on, catch up.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forg—”

My eyes climb at the break in his words and find the same dark brown eyes I’ve been seeing everywhere over the past three months, staring at me. My heart wasn’t racing solely because of Mercedes’ daredevil race—it recognized his voice before my conscious mind did.

“King, can we order pizza?”

King?

“Yeah, yeah. Um, why don’t you go pick a movie and I’ll order.”

“I don’t want any toes on my pizza.”

“No olives, got it,” he says impatiently, his eyes still focused on me.

“And no mushrooms, or onions, or anything besides—”

“Cheese, yeah, I know.”

“Last time you tried to sneak pineapple. None of that this time.”

His head shakes and finally turns to look at her. “Cheese on top of cheese, nothing else.”

“I want sauce, duh!”

“Watch the attitude. Go pick a movie.”

“Maybe my uncle King can teach you to cook. He’s really good,” Mercedes explains, turning to face me again.

“Mercedes, get your butt in the game room and pick a movie.”

“What’s your problem?” Her scowl has returned, but rather than firing off a reply, she shuffles down the hall.

“Lo?” I can feel his eyes inspecting me, bringing my arms to cross over my chest.

“I thought your name was Bentley?”

“It’s my middle name, but … What are you doing here?”

My eyes widen. It seems that my reason for being here is fairly obvious, yet the explanation seems lost on me as well for a moment.

“I mean, I know why, but … how? How did you find me?”

“Find you?”

“You never called. I thought…”

I don’t know that I’ve ever been this embarrassed. The brown eyes that haunt me in my sleep are wide, making his hat rise slightly so I can see more of his face without shadows from the bill. He looks terrified to see me. Not only does he look afraid, but there’s something else. When you draw people, you study them and learn there are certain expressions that are nearly unanimous. Humiliation has my eyes darting from his before I can grasp what other emotions are mingled with his surprise.

“King!” Kash nearly hits King with the front door as he steps inside, dressed in a similar non-cold-weather outfit. “What’s up, dude? I didn’t know you were getting home tonight!”

My neck snaps and my eyes stretch, replaying the word home.

“Did you meet Lo?”

“Yeah, we just met,” I reply instantly, keeping my attention on Kash. “I have to go, but I’ll see you tomorrow. Nice meeting you, King.”

I grab my coat and bag from beside the door and barely notice the confusion on Kash’s face as I clear the deck to create some space.

“Hey! Wait!”

I feel entirely too warm as my steps slow down, and turn to see King clearing the bottom two steps with a practiced leap. Still, I yank on my coat because of course it’s raining again, and I know I will be freezing on the bus ride to my apartment if I’m soaking.

“That came out wrong. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean I thought you had stalked me exactly…” His voice is wary, tinged with confusion.

“Exactly?”

“Well, it’s just weird that I come home and you’re babysitting my niece.”

“That’s funny because I was just thinking how weird it is that you told me your name was Bentley.”

His gaze moves to the side of me, weighing my words, and I realize I still haven’t objected to the fact that I’ve somehow stalked him.

“I didn’t know you lived here.” I blurt the words louder and more forcefully than the others, making his eyes return to mine. “I barely remember you. Whatever happened happened, but I wasn’t looking for you. When someone told me about a babysitting job, the last thing I questioned was if I would see you here. That was what? Like three months ago? I didn’t plan to ever see you again.”

His eyes narrow, reflecting a similar expression to the one I so often received from Mercedes that is finally becoming a shadow to the smiles she generally greets me with. “Good. I just wanted to make sure things were clear between us.”

“Crystal.”

“Perfect.”

My lips press together and I nod. “Great.”

“Wonderful.”

“Terrific.”

“This is amazing.” He shakes his head as he dips it low enough that his eyes disappear under the bill of his hat.

My eyebrows cinch with confusion that quickly relents to awkwardness for standing here, watching him shake his head after accusing me of stalking him. I shake my head and without looking back to him, head down the long driveway that’s starting to darken with shadows.

The soft echo of his feet crunching on the gravel meets my ears over my own footsteps. His are louder, and I know part of that is because he’s taking wider steps.

They stop long before my trip to the bus station does.

“I HAVE wine and donuts.” Charleigh pushes the door open with her foot and lifts two bags in the air to show me her treasures.

“Wine first. I want my stomach empty.”

Charleigh cracks a smile and deposits the bags on the counter before making her way over to where I’m slouched at my easel.

“I thought things were getting better with Mercedes.”

“They are.”

“Then why are you in such a foul mood?”

Usually the sound of Charleigh’s accent pulls my lips into a smile. Her sense of humor carries a warmth that I’ve become reliant on. But as she approaches me, all I can think is I want to be alone.

“I found him.”

“Who?” Charleigh’s brows furrow as she stops with several feet still separating us.

“Him,” I say. “Bentley.”

“Oh my God. What do you mean you found him?”

“I mean, I saw him today.”

“What? Where? How? He remembered you … didn’t he?” I try to ignore how hopeful she sounds.

“He thought I was stalking him.”

Charleigh closes her eyes for a full second and then opens them wide, her long painted lashes becoming more pronounced as her eyes seem to stretch wider with shock. “He did not!”

I press my lips together and nod, fighting a smirk that doesn’t feel appropriate for how terrible I still feel about everything that transpired today. It becomes a laugh that makes me cough. All afternoon humor has been at the very bottom of the emotions that I’ve been experiencing, but suddenly retelling my story to Charleigh is making me want to laugh and let the awkwardness of the afternoon fall like the rain.

“Where did you see him?” she asks, leaning closer to me.

“Oh, you’re going to freak out.”

“Tell me!” she cries, sitting beside my small stool, on my bed.

“I’m trying, patient one.” Charleigh scrunches her nose and purses her lips. She wants to tell me off, but her need to hear about my seeing him again is outweighing her retort. My lips climb into a grin before I shake my head to clear my thoughts. King’s wide eyes return to my memory, and with it, so does a frown and the embarrassment I’ve been treading all evening.

“He’s Kashton’s brother. Mercedes’ uncle.”

“You’re lying!”

I shake my head again. “He came right before I got off. Apparently, he lives with them.”

“He lives there!” I can tell by her tone that she thinks this is just as horrible as I do.

I slowly nod in confirmation. There really isn’t anything to say.

“What did he say?” she asks.

“Not a lot.”

“Then how do you know he thought you were stalking him?”

“He asked how I found him.”

“What did you say? Did you tell him he was impossible to find?”

“No! Kash got home. And do you want to know why it was impossible to find Bentley?” My head cocks to the side. “It’s because it’s not his real name.” My voice is raised to express just how ridiculous this all is. “His name’s King.”

Charleigh’s eyebrows soar up her forehead and she stares at me for several long seconds. “His name isn’t Bentley?”

“Nope.”

“People are named King? I thought that was like American pop culture that brought this wave of strange baby names?”

“His brother’s name is Kash, Charleigh.”

She wrinkles her nose and smiles faintly. “What’s worse is they’re starting to grow on me and become normal names.” She throws her head back and shakes her long dark hair before looking back to me. “That really doesn’t sound like he thought you were stalking him though, love.”

“You should have seen his face, Charleigh. He was not expecting to see me. And then I left and he followed me outside and down the driveway and said he wasn’t trying to accuse me of stalking.”

“You never tell someone you aren’t trying to insinuate something! It automatically says that you are!”

I nod several times in agreement and she closes her eyes again, releasing a loud sigh. “So, are you telling me that Mr. Stars is just like all of the rest of the wankers?”

“He’s a dude. The Y chromosome is crafted with the art of being an asshole.”

“No, no. Not all Y chromosomes. Boys are wankers. You need to find a man.”

My lips slide into a smile without me being able to consider it. “I don’t need a man. I need to get some sleep because I have a test tomorrow in math that I’m predicting I’m going to fail.”

“I’m so angry though, Lauren. Aren’t you mad? He was so great, and then you find him and he’s…”

“A wanker, I know,” I say, standing up from the small seat that is far more uncomfortable when I’m not lost in creation. “I didn’t expect to see him again, so I don’t think I’m all that disappointed. I’m more dreading going back and having to possibly face him again.”

“That is going to be awful.”

“Not helping, Charleigh.”

“Sorry! But it is!”

“I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“What about the wine and donuts?” Charleigh asks, standing from my bed.

“Allie probably needs them more. I stopped in to say hi to her earlier, and she’s acting like a maniac. Carbs and alcohol will do her good.”

“You might find carbs and alcohol to be beneficial as well.”

“Not tonight. Thanks.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah, sure.”

With a deep breath, I fall against my bed with enough force my hair bounces around me. I should turn off the lights. I should lock the door. I should eat. But my eyes are already closed, tracing over the memories of King from this summer, and seeing him again tonight.

I allow myself only the briefest of seconds before I roll off my bed, hitting the edge with a fist before stalking to the door and locking it, and peeling my clothes off as I head back to my bed, not caring about food.

“LO, WE need to talk.”

Heart thrumming, I turn to face King and watch his long strides close the gap between us faster than what seems possible because my attention is focused on the muscles moving beneath the thin grey cotton of his tee. His slightly uneven smile confirms he knows I was admiring the fluidity and strength of his body. He exudes a confidence and sexual vigor that makes my stomach tighten and every cell in my body to divide with equal parts want and a struggle to deny that want. Trying to ignore the heat rushing through me, I hold my chin a bit higher and wait for him to continue.

The humor is still bright in his brown eyes as he stops in front of me and runs a hand across his chest, drawing attention to how soft the worn fabric appears. My fingers are itching to follow the same path but I clench them tighter at my sides. “You’re so beautiful in the rain.” Extending his hand, he trails his thumb over my cheek that is suddenly wet. All of me is. The rain seems to be literally falling from every direction. My hair and clothes are quickly dampening, sticking to my skin that feels sticky.

I don’t know how to acknowledge or interpret his words. Rationally I’m accepting the compliment, bathing in it, clutching it like it’s a physical object, one precious enough I want to both hide in my underwear drawer and show to everyone.

“What are you talking about? I thought you said…”

“You caught me by surprise. I never expected to see you when I opened that door. I think I just … I was really shocked.” King’s hand trails over my shoulder, lingering on the sensitive skin at the inside of my elbow before traveling down to the inside of my wrist. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

“This?” My voice is embarrassingly low and breathy. King’s lips climb back into his beautiful crooked smile, knowing his affect over me.

“You,” he says, moving a foot between mine, bringing him so close I can feel the warmth of his chest through our wet shirts, causing my arms to feel colder in contrast.

I keep my chin level so that my lips are just low enough he will either have to bend or manipulate my back or neck to kiss me. I kind of hope he chooses the latter. I want to feel his hands on me, knowing how powerful and gentle they can be. My hips slide forward, manipulated by only his presence, willing to comply with anything, or possibly begging traitorously.

“Lo.” My name is a whisper. A plea. An entire dedication to my heart that steals my breath and any lasting hesitation.

My chin falls back as one of his hands wraps into my loose hair and his other wraps around my back, pulling me closer to him. His lips are softer than I remember, but the comparison vanishes nearly as quickly as it came when his tongue parts my lips and then slides purposefully against my lower lip, coaxing, encouraging, taking. I press up on my toes and tighten my grip around his neck, drawing me closer to him, deepening the kiss because I want him to take everything from me.

His warm, earthy scent sweetened by soap and something that is singularly him fills my lungs, bringing me higher, losing every sense of the rain and any concern that was planning a strike in my head.

His rough chin scratches mine as he bends to shift and lower me to the ground, which is surprisingly warm and soft for being the front yard. The warmth from his palms seeps into my skin like a dye, absorbing and stretching until I feel him touching me nearly everywhere. Everywhere except where I want to feel him. My groan of impatience makes King chuckle as his nose skims across mine. I don’t care that he’s laughing at my eagerness; it doesn’t dampen my lust and need for him in the slightest. Reaching between us, I fist my shirt and pull it off, shocking both of us when I reveal I’m not wearing a bra.

King’s hand runs over my belly, following the path where my ribs meet so that the curve of my breasts feel the barest of pressure, causing a new objection of patience to quickly be cried as my back arches.

I feel the weight of him against me everywhere, yet it’s worse than having him not touching me at all, because I am so desperate to feel his skin, his power, and the relief my body is seeking, that I feel like another person. I want to immerse myself in this moment and get completely and utterly lost. I have not experienced a desire like this apart from when I first met King and we spent the entire evening lost first in conversation and later in sensations and emotions.

Twisting below him to bring him more firmly against me, I nearly whimper when the pressure of his body eases, becoming lighter and lighter until my body burns with exposure.

My eyelids slam open, meeting the darkness of my apartment. Over the thudding of my heart, I take in the silence, the emptiness around me, and am grateful Kenzie didn’t bring a guest over as I reach for the shirt I had peeled off mid-dream.

“I hate you,” I mumble, shifting to my side, flipping the weight of my blankets back over me, and nestling deeper into my bed.

THE WALK to the Knight residence seems longer today. I have no idea what I’m going to say, or how I should act around King. Ignoring him seems not only rude but impossible when he lives in the house. However, when I arrive, the driveway is void of all vehicles, and the garage and shop are both closed. I wander through the house, paying close attention as I go to ensure I’m alone before I take a seat at the kitchen table and pull out an art history book. The creative part of art comes fairly naturally to me—the book part of school does not. This year, my advisor informed me that not only was I a history credit behind, but also a math credit. These quiet times at the house before Mercedes gets home from her carpool have become a saving grace for me to allot time to the subjects.

I close my book, knowing Mercedes should be home at any second, and hear the door open and Mercedes releasing an indecipherable growl. “Hey,” I call. “How was your day?”

I barely register her words as I enter the foyer, waiting to see why the door is still open behind her.

“… and Justin Davison puked all over the cafeteria at lunch. It. Was. Disgusting.”

When nothing follows her but a gust of wind, I turn to Mercedes and grin. “I hope you don’t get sick too. I have a rule about puking.”

“What kind of rule?”

“My stomach doesn’t like you to go through it alone.”

“Gross!” she cries, dropping her shoulders with defeat.

I raise my eyebrows and nod. “I don’t enjoy it either. Close the door and let’s get homework done so we can play.”

IT’S TWO days later that I finally see him, and I hate that it makes my pulse quicken and every one of my senses is heightened. He doesn’t pay attention to me. Not a smile, not a word, not even a glance. Nothing. I decide it’s better this way. It will be easier to forget that night and him if we both pretend the other doesn’t exist. My brother, Josh, and I practiced this game for most of our lives—I’m proficient at pretending.

“ANYTHING GOOD in there?” I poke my head out of the fridge where I’m making room for the instant pudding Mercedes eventually gave in to making with me after pleading for us to make a dessert. She thought my cooking skills were lacking—she was mortified to learn my complete lack of ability to bake. Parker is behind me, his baseball hat flipped backward over his messy hair, with a scruffy jaw that clearly hasn’t seen a razor in several days.

“Hey, Parker.”

“How have you been? I haven’t seen you much lately.”

“Yeah, I was visiting my family over the weekend,” I explain.

“In Montana?”

I nod a few times and hear the fan of the fridge kick on. He is too close for me to move out of the way without brushing against him though, so I remain standing in front of the open door.

“How did it go?”

“It was … home.” The word is so self-explanatory for me.

“Maybe I’ll make the trip out there with you next time to see if they grow all Montana girls like you.” His index finger is curled as it brushes down my cheek in a movement that’s too fast to be sensual but too intimate to be a joke.

“Did King make this?” he asks, his eyes moving to something over my shoulder.

“Sorry?” I ask, taking a small step back and feeling the coolness of a shelf press against the back of my arms.

“Do you know if King made this?” His arm reaches forward, crowding me closer to the fridge. He pulls a plastic Tupperware from a shelf with a quiet scrape.

“I don’t know…”

Parker lifts his gaze to mine, and a slow smile curves his lips into an easy smile. “It must not be. If King had made it, it would be gone. His cooking is better than sex.”

“You have no idea what good sex is like if you believe that.” King appears behind Parker, and his attention locks on me. It’s unnerving, making me question what thoughts are occurring behind his brown eyes that are narrowed ever so slightly, making his dark eyelashes appear even thicker.

“But you’re right, I am a good cook.” King takes the leftovers from Parker’s hand and pulls down a couple of plates from the cupboard.

“What is that shit? It looks good,” Parker says, taking a step closer to King and allowing me to finally move.

Being anywhere near King still makes me feel uneasy, even with us ignoring each other. Just being in the house when I know he’s here makes my shoulders tight, my ears strain, and my focus constantly stray. The effects seem to magnify with him being so close.

“You want some, Lo?” My name on King’s lips intensifies it that much more.

I try to shake my head, but my neck is too stiff to make it appear natural. “No thanks, I’m good.”

“No, dish her up some of that. If she hasn’t had your food yet, she needs to check this out,” Parker insists.

“It’s okay, really. I need to get heading home, anyway.”

“Hot date?” Parker’s lips are still curled in the same familiar smile I’ve seen him wear since my first day.

“No, Charleigh and I are going to hit up an art store.”

“When are we going to meet Charleigh?” Parker asks.

“Yeah. When are we going to meet Charleigh?” I raise my eyebrows, meeting King’s stare. His head is tilted slightly to the left and his chin lowered just enough that I can tell he’s annoyed. Blinking several times, I try to gain a cohesive thought and shrug as the microwave beeps. Thankfully Parker takes a step forward, breaking the path of King’s stare.

I move to where my sweatshirt is folded over the back of a wooden stool and pull it over my head, bringing a shower of fine hairs to fall across my face. I’m grateful for straightening it this morning. If I had left it its normal curly/wavy/undetermined self, these wisps wouldn’t be lying flat against my temple; they would be a frame of frizzy fuzz.

“Hang on, Lo. I’m serious about you trying this,” Parker says, grabbing forks from the silverware drawer.

Raking my short nails across my forehead, I work to prepare another excuse. My words fall flat as he brings a fork to his mouth and lightly blows on it while holding his other hand below the bite. The gesture is something I’ve never experienced, and my mind fights to decipher if I find it to be parental or romantic.

He closes the short gap between us and I slowly lower my hand, keeping it midair in an awkward stance. My brain is yelling at me to object the offer, to make an excuse for food allergies or about being late, but the excitement dancing in Parker’s wide blue eyes makes me swallow my words along with the bite of food.

It’s some sort of rice mixed with vegetables, coated in a light sauce that is slightly tangy and aromatic against my tongue. It’s delicious even as leftovers, assuring me that it was mouthwatering when King first made it.

“What do you think, Lauren? Is it better than sex?” King’s voice is bold with the edge of a joke hanging on the word sex.

I can feel my face heat with humiliation. Concealing my embarrassment is something I’ve never been able to master. It’s always been apparent by the deep flush that covers my cheeks and makes me feel like I’m in a sauna.

“Way better.” My throat feels too dry from the bite and his shocking question, but my words are clear. Parker’s eruption of laughter confirms they were also loud enough to be heard. My eyes move to King for a moment, my feet firmly planted in place to convey I’m not bothered by his innuendo.

“Really? So you’re silent while you do the dirty, huh?” King asks.

A new wave of embarrassment burns my cheeks, and I catch him raise his eyebrows for a second, before they fall back in place. His lips quirk ever so slightly—so slightly I don’t know that anyone would even catch the expression if they didn’t know to look for the truth.

“Not when it’s so good it deserves to be heard.”

Rather than narrowing into a glare like I’m expecting from his previous reaction, King’s eyes brighten with humor and he slowly nods a couple of times. Thankfully, Parker’s laughter distracts me, and I look over to catch him with his head thrown back and his mouth wide as he laughs like my words merit the reaction. But it’s only a second before my eyes turn back to King.

Lately I’ve begun sketching Mercedes here and there—something I have been grateful for after such a long dry spell—but my fingers and mind feel a familiar desire to draw King’s reaction with every detail my eyes are soaking in. I haven’t felt this buzz, this unattainable desire to draw and get every line I’m carefully storing to memory, for so long, I feel nearly drunk from it.

I need to go. I need to go now so I can draw while this yearning is still flowing through me. Even if King is my subject again, I need to feel the power only attainable when my charcoal is able to transform a blank sheet.

“I’ll see you guys later.” Without waiting for a reply, I head outside where the dampness from the air fills my lungs. It makes them feel heavier, stretched, like the air here weighs more because of how much moisture clings to everything surrounding me.

My thoughts are so consumed by everything I want to draw; I’m at the bus stop before it seems possible. I then watch everyone that passes me, noting details and sizes, shades, emotions—things I haven’t been able to see clearly for months. It’s nearly overwhelming, not just because there is so much to be seen, but because I am so relieved to once again see it.

The charcoal in my hand doesn’t hover with indecision as it has for so many weeks; it glides across the paper with ease. It’s as though I’m allowing myself to finally draw what I’ve been waiting to create for forever, though it’s impossible, because I have only known King a short time. Somehow, every single detail of him is perfectly stored to memory. So familiar, I don’t have to think to recall the line of his jaw or plains of his cheeks. I know each contour so well, it’s as though he’s been a constant throughout my entire life.

MY BACK is tight and stiff up to my neck, and my wrist aches when I finish shading a final strand of hair. Still, I feel reluctant to stop. It feels so good to be able to draw once again. My eyes burn and my lids feel suddenly heavy. It isn’t a conscious decision, but my eyes seem to blink far less when I work and always feel gritty and tired after a long session like they just endured.

I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck before standing and noticing it’s after 3:00 a.m. I don’t feel panicked or exhausted by the thought of having to wake up in a few hours. I’m far too invigorated for anything to get me down at this point.