Текст книги "Four Years Later"
Автор книги: Monica Murphy
Соавторы: Monica Murphy
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
CHAPTER 7
Study Date #1
Owen
Wade is gone. The house is kind of clean. As clean as it can get the day after a spontaneous party and with three dirty guys living there. Well, two live here and the other crashes on our couch all the time. I made those two assholes I call friends clean it, then I went behind them and picked up, wiped down, or threw away what they missed.
Des left hours ago. The guy has his own place, but he’s always with us. It used to not bother me, but lately I’ve been getting sick of it. He’s dealing out of my house and that sucks. Fable would flip the fuck out if she knew.
So I don’t tell her.
Wade’s at work—he’s an associate at your local discount mega-store, ringing up customers and wishing he were anywhere else. Poor Wade. Poor Des.
Lucky me.
Tonight, it’s just gonna be me and Chelsea and my homework assignments. Oh, and a pizza I’ll order when she gets here and a six-pack of Coke I picked up at the liquor store on the corner. I probably should have got diet, since that’s what girls usually prefer. Empty calories and all that bullshit—I’ve heard Fable say it before.
I really wanted some beer, but that shit is all gone from the house. Not a drop of liquor survived last night’s so-called get-together. Besides, I know Chelsea wouldn’t like that. She doesn’t approve of my extracurricular activities. I don’t have to ask her to know that’s the case. Not that she judges. She’s just not comfortable with it.
She’s innocent. Sort of naïve. I get this feeling she’s been pretty sheltered so far, and I think back on what I said to her last night.
Maybe I can corrupt you.
I want to corrupt her so bad it’s killing me. I saw the way her eyes darkened when I said it. Her lips parted, her tongue darting out for a quick lick. I’d remained neutral, but deep inside I’d gone all hot and sweaty and lusted for her. It would be my absolute fucking pleasure to corrupt her. Show her what she’s been missing. Touch her here, there, and everywhere. Kiss her until we both can’t breathe.
I’m getting hard just thinking about it.
So I stop thinking about it. At least, I try. Glancing around the house, I check out the overstuffed dark brown leather couch and notice a new, jagged scratch on one of the cushions, the coffee table with fresh scratches on the surface, and the missing lamp on the end table since some jackass broke it last night.
Hell. Despite all the cleaning, this place still looks like a dump.
There’s a knock at the door and I go answer it, trying my best not to look too eager. Chelsea must be early and I’m excited, like a little kid about to go on his first play date. Wiping my sweaty palms on the front of my jeans, I take a deep breath and throw open the door.
To find my mom standing on my front porch with an expectant look on her haggard face.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“What do you want?” I ask, pissed that she’s here, pissed that I’m rude to her.
She rolls her eyes and barges inside, pushing past me so I have no choice but to step back and let her in. “I need money.”
No hi, how are you—none of that shit anymore. She at least used to play at acting as if she cared. “You already spent what I gave you?” I glance outside, hoping I’ll spot Chelsea, but I don’t see her. Besides, it’s too early. She still has at least fifteen minutes, and I have a feeling she’ll show up right on the dot. She’s punctual like that.
“Yeah, I did. It wasn’t enough,” Mom answers, her voice shaky, a little loud.
It’s never enough, what I give her. Money, attention, weed, whatever—it’s never, ever enough. She’s greedy as hell and doesn’t care who knows it.
“I don’t have any more to give you,” I lie, because I flat-out don’t want to dip into the secret stash hidden away in my closet. That’s for emergencies only. Definitely not for my mom’s drug and booze habit.
“You’re a goddamn liar.” She rounds on me, her mouth like a thin slash across her face, her dull green eyes narrowed slits. “Call your sister. Get some money from her and that rich shit she married.”
“I’m not calling Fable,” I say, my voice tight, my blood boiling. “If you want something from her, you call her.”
“You don’t think I’ve tried? Little bitch won’t talk to me. I go straight to voice mail every single time. I’m sick of it. Sick of all of you.” Mom waves her hand, stumbling around like she’s going to fall, and I go to her, catching her by the elbows before she drops to the floor.
I look into her face, see that her eyes are dilated and her breaths are coming fast. She’s high.
And not from smoking a little weed, either.
“Stay right here.” I give her a little shove, so she settles on the couch with a grunt and I make my escape to my room. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure she didn’t follow me, I go into my closet and head for my old varsity jacket from high school. A jacket I rarely wore but Fable insisted I get. She was so damn proud of me for being on the football team, especially when we won the regional championships. The smile on her face that night was unforgettable.
The look in my mom’s wacked-out eyes just now was unforgettable, too. I need to get her the hell out of here. Before Chelsea sees her. Before Mom starts bad-mouthing Fable again. I want to scream at her. Ask her why the fuck she’s so selfish. Doesn’t she realize how much she’s hurt Fable? How much she’s hurt me? Mom is a freaking grandma now. Autumn is her first grandchild, her blood flows through the baby’s veins, and it’s like she doesn’t even give a shit.
I’m not sure if she’s aware that Autumn even exists.
I find the wad of cash in my jacket pocket and pull a couple of twenties and a fifty-dollar bill from it. I shouldn’t give her this. I told myself not even five minutes ago I wouldn’t. I’m funding her drug habit and that is such bullshit, but when it comes to my mom, I can’t stop myself.
She’s my bad habit. The one I just can’t seem to quit.
Frustrated with myself, feeling weak and stupid, I go back out into the living room to find Mom pacing around like she can’t keep still. She keeps rubbing her bare arms as though something’s crawling on her skin and she’s trying to brush it away. She doesn’t see me yet, and I stare at her in dawning horror.
There’s something going on here I don’t want to face. I don’t have time to deal with it right now. I’d rather shove money in her hand and send her away. But I can’t keep on doing that forever. Avoiding my mom isn’t going to fix this. Fix her.
Can she ever be fixed?
“Here.” I rush toward her and grab her wrist, making her splay out her hand. I slap the cash into her palm and her fingers curl around it, crushing it so hard it turns into a crumpled wad of green. “Don’t come back for at least two weeks. I’m not your personal bank.”
“Fuck you,” she spits at me just before she turns on her heel and runs out the door.
Shock renders me frozen as I stare out the still open front door. She came and left, just like that. No thank you, no “you’re the greatest son alive,” none of that. Just a demand and a curse—that’s all I get for my troubles.
I’m the world’s biggest fucking idiot.
Anger streams through my blood, makes me stalk around the house with clenched fists and a broken heart. Why the hell does she do this to me? Why do I let her get to me every single time? I wish I were more like Fable. She’s pushed Mom right out of her life, and with no regret. Moved on with someone she loves, someone who takes care of her. Created a family out of nothing. And though I’m a part of that family and I know it, it’s still hard. The distance between us makes it harder.
I’m here and the three of them are there. Drew and Fable and Autumn. It used to be Drew and Fable and Owen.
Now I’m just Owen.
Sometimes, I hate that. Growing up, moving on. Being alone. Finding my footing, when all I do is stumble around in the dark. Fuck.
I need a hit.
Glancing at the clock on the microwave, I see I have less than five minutes before Chelsea’s supposed to show up. Just enough time to take a drag off a joint, maybe even a couple of hits if I’m fast. I have one I rolled a few nights ago stashed in the top drawer of my dresser and I go to it as if in a daze. Pull the drawer open, pull the joint out, grab the lighter, and flick it again and again until there’s a flame.
Then I’m lighting it. Sucking up the smoke and the seed, inhaling until it fills my throat, slips into my lungs, and I feel the familiar, pleasurable burn. I exhale, thin tendrils of smoke escaping from my mouth, and I close my eyes briefly. Let it take me away to another place. A simpler time when I didn’t have all this goddamn pressure weighing on me.
I take another puff and then stub out the joint against the side of my dresser, not giving a shit if I’m messing up the wood. Stash everything away quick, my buzz already washing over me, zipping through my veins, settling in my still pissed-off brain and making all my troubles slowly melt into nothing. The haze comes, warm and comfortable and just enough to leave me numb. I want to forget. Forget Mom and Fable and my grades and my job and football. Focus on the here and now and a girl named Chelsea who thinks she’s coming over here to help me with my homework assignments.
That’s the last thing I want to do with her. But I’m afraid that’s all I’m ever going to get.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
Her sweet voice calls to me and I leave my room to find Chelsea standing in the middle of the living room, a hesitant look on her face as she looks around. When she spots me, I see the relief wash over her and I smile. Feeling cocky, feeling good, feeling like nothing can get me down now.
Not with Chelsea here, lighting up the room like sunshine and flowers and pure, unadulterated beauty.
“Hey,” I say, letting my gaze roam over her unabashedly. She’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved white top that clings to her breasts and makes me wanna cling to them, too. Her backpack is slung over her shoulder, her smile tentative as she sets the bulky, heavy-looking object down on the floor beside the couch.
“Hi. Um, your front door was wide open, so I hope you don’t mind that I just walked in,” she says, waving toward the now closed door.
“No problem. Glad you made it.” I’m sincere as hell about that. I am so damn glad she made it. I’d be climbing the walls if she weren’t here.
“Are you ready to get to work?” She kicks at her backpack. “I brought some stuff that I printed up, but I’m hoping you know what you need to do.”
“Yeah, I totally know what to do.” I wave a hand, dismissing her worry as I approach her. She takes a step back and I brush by her, wishing I could reach out and grab her. Kiss her.
This is the weed talking. It has to be.
She squints at me, watching as I go to the dining table and grab the folder I keep with my missing assignments in it. “Are you all right?”
“I’m feeling pretty fucking amazing.” I turn to face her once more, noticing how she’s looking at me as if I’ve lost my head. She might be right. Mom coming over, the weed, having Chelsea standing here in front of me looking cute as hell—it’s all sending my head spinning out of control.
She makes a face at my choice of words, then leans over and unzips her backpack, digging inside for all the work she wants me to do, I’m sure. I stare at her ass, tilting my head to the side so I can get a better view, and when she turns she catches me.
Her gaze narrows. She is such a suspicious little thing. “Are you checking me out?”
I decide to be straightforward. No bullshit games from me tonight. “Yep.” I lift my head slowly, since it feels like it weighs a ton. For whatever reason, the weed has loosened my tongue, which is not a usual side effect. “You have a really great …”
“A great what?” She stands to her full height, hands on her hips as she waits for my answer.
“A really great everything,” I finish, not wanting to focus on her butt and nothing else. There’s more to this girl than just her figure. “I’m fucking starving. Want me to order a pizza?”
She does that face again. It’s cute, makes me want to keep saying things she doesn’t like just to see her do it again. “There’s a really good Chinese place that delivers. I love it. You like Chinese?”
“Sure.” I shrug, ignoring my rumbling stomach. Right about now I’d eat a piece of cardboard, I’m so hungry. “Sounds good. You have the number?”
“Will you let me order?” She shoots me a questioning look, nibbling on her full lower lip in that innocently sexy way she has. Watching her makes me want to be the one nibbling on that lush lip. Tugging and pulling with my teeth, making her gasp just before I soothe the hurt with my tongue …
“Be my guest,” I say, sounding like I’m in a daze. I sorta am.
This girl works some sort of magic over me. And I can’t quite figure out how. Or why.
She smiles and grabs her backpack, hauling it over to the dining table and setting it down with a loud thump before she starts rummaging through it. “Their food is pretty cheap and I know just what to order. I’ll even pay.”
“Hell no.” I grab her wrist when she pulls out her cell from the depths of her backpack, stopping her. “You are definitely not paying for it. I will.”
“But I don’t mind.” She glances down at where I’m touching her. I wonder if she’s as aware of me as I am of her. “I’m the one who wants Chinese.”
“I want it, too.” I circle my fingers around her slender wrist, feel her wildly beating pulse beneath my touch. I want more than just Chinese food, that’s for damn sure. I feel like we’re talking in secret code. Saying one thing and really meaning another.
At least, I am.
“Fine. I order, you pay.” She doesn’t try to tug out of my grip and I take advantage, sweeping my thumb slowly over the inside of her wrist in the lightest of caresses. I swear I feel her shiver, and when I look at her, I find her staring at me like she’s so fucking hungry she just might gobble me up.
“Sounds good.” I let my hand drop from her arm, disappointment clanging through me like a living, breathing thing. The tension between us is fucking ridiculous. If nothing happens tonight, I’m afraid I might burst. At the very least, I’ll have to go whack off after she leaves, like some sort of deranged pervert in need of constant relief.
I want her but I don’t. I’m attracted to her though I shouldn’t be. I’m high, and it’s not just from the weed.
I’m also high on Chelsea.
Chelsea
He’s pushing through his assignments way quicker than I thought he would. I knew Owen was smart. I’d studied his student file well enough to see he just lacked focus or flat-out didn’t apply himself. His past grades reflected that. Going to college does that to a person. It’s all so much, sometimes too much, and students either thrive or they fail.
I’d thrived. The structure, the complexity of the courses, all of it had given me such a rush I’d dived right into my classes headfirst and never looked back. No one cared how old I was here; none of my past mattered. I could blend in, become someone new, someone free.
But I’m not free. I’m still tied to the guilt of my mother and the anger with my father. Deep down inside, I’m still a scared, too-smart-for-her-own-good little girl who’s afraid to really live for fear she’ll get hurt.
Boys are trouble, my mom would say. Then they grow up to be men and become even more trouble. Stick with yourself, sweetie. Count on only you. Everyone else will just disappoint you.
Mom had whispered those words of so-called wisdom to me when I was fifteen. The year before I graduated high school. I’d known there was trouble in my parents’ marriage. From the time I was eleven, when I became privy to a secret phone call between my dad and one of his mistresses, I knew he was unfaithful to Mom.
He didn’t love her. And if he didn’t love her, he didn’t love me. That’s what I believed at fifteen. I would listen to Mom talk about how awful men were, how bad they treated women. She would talk that way when she was mad at him, when she knew he was cheating on her.
Then he’d sweet-talk her, convince her she was the only one for him, and she’d change her tune. Her reaction to him, the constant push and pull between them, left me a confused mess most of the time, especially over boys and relationships.
I don’t really talk to my dad. He’s tried. He’s called me a few times, but I always hang up when I hear the recorded message from the jail. He has to know I don’t want to have contact with him.
When Mom was in one of her moods, working me over, she told me I needed to do right by my father and stand by him. So right before he was convicted for his crime last year, I’d gone to visit him in jail. He’d promised me he would get out. He’d be acquitted. He’d been so sure, so convincing, I believed him.
I’d gone home and begged my mom to let me go to court. I wanted to watch. Wanted to be there when he was set free and we could celebrate together. She told me no. Her excuse? I was too young and might not be able to handle it.
I’d been so confused, so devastated, I hid away in my room, crying into my pillow, believing that my mom didn’t understand. Why would she ask me to stand by him and then tell me I couldn’t go to court? It made no sense.
Now I’m glad I wasn’t there. He’d been found guilty. I heard they carted him back to jail and he’d been in a state of utter shock, Mom wailing the entire time.
Men can’t be trusted, Mom said before I left for college this last summer. But you already know this. You’re doing such a good job, sweetheart. Keep focusing on your schoolwork. Get your degree, find a career that is fulfilling. Then you can worry about a husband and babies, if that’s what you really want.
She’d said the last bit with such resignation, I wondered if Mom would prefer I become a lesbian rather than find a good man to settle down with. That had been during her down-with-men stage. The one she still clung to. It’s sort of funny, considering she hadn’t believed me when I came to her with my lesbian declaration.
Sitting next to Owen, I wonder what Mom would think if I became involved with him. What would she say if I brought him home and introduced him as my boyfriend? She’d probably tell me to run. I would tell me to run. His home life sounds chaotic. He has drug issues. Drinking issues. School issues. All sorts of issues.
He is an issue … for me. I’m drawn to him despite all the arguments that war inside my too busy, overthinking brain. All the danger signs that I usually bow to, I’m ignoring. Instead I’m just blazing on, fascinated by every little thing he does and says. He’s sitting next to me at the table, concentrating on whatever assignment he’s completing while he stares at his laptop, and I’m preparing a lesson plan for one of the students I’ll meet with tomorrow.
We consumed the Chinese food as soon as it arrived, and I was inordinately pleased by how much he liked it. He raved on, eating enthusiastically while my appetite slowly vanished, replaced with a battlement of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. He makes me nervous in the most delicious, oh-my-God-I-want-him kind of way.
And I’ve never wanted any guy. Never felt that instant connection with one, either. I always figured I’d want someone like … me. Steady and patient and smart. Quiet and shy and kind of nerdy.
Owen is seemingly none of those things. He’s gorgeous and sexy and charismatic. Tall and broad and athletic. Says what he wants and does what he wants—goes after what he wants. He acts like he can do anything.
Is it wrong that I wish he wanted to do me? God, I can feel my cheeks heat just thinking it, let alone I could never say something like that out loud, especially to his face.
I’m a complete weenie. I’ve coasted my entire life in this sort of subexistence. Not really noticed for anything beyond my brain and even then, I hide behind it. My father becomes the biggest scandal in my hometown—heck, in all of California—and still I hide. No one knows Chelsea Simmons.
I never wanted anyone to know me … until Owen.
Mom would think I’d completely lost my mind for even thinking something like this.
“Are you okay?”
His deep voice washes over me and I lift my head to find him watching me, his brows furrowed in concern though his mouth is quirked up on one side. Almost like he’s … laughing at me.
Wariness settles over me like deflective armor and I flick my gaze away from his, focusing on the textbook open in front of me but not really seeing the words. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“You’ve been staring off into space for, like, the last five minutes at least.” When I look back at him, shock and horror rushing through my veins, he shrugs those impossibly broad shoulders, a sheepish expression on his face. “I was watching you.”
Now I’m gaping at him. He watched me? And just admitted it? “I was …”
“Lost in thought? You looked worried.” He reaches out toward me and I go completely still, my breath lodged in my lungs as he brushes his finger across my lower lip. “I was afraid you’d chew a hole through your lip.”
I want to die. Both at him touching me and at the fact that he called me out on my bad habit.
“I used to chew it so bad I’d make it bleed.” Okay, why did I just go and admit that?
He frowns. “You have that much to worry about?”
I want to laugh. He has no idea. “Kind of.” I need to play this off. “I’ve never really … fit in.” Seriously? Now I’m pointing out my lack of social skills? What is wrong with me?
“I find that hard to believe.” He looks surprised as he leans back in his chair. His T-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of flat stomach, and my gaze automatically drops to that spot. “Why?”
I’m completely transfixed. There’s a trail of dark hair that starts just below his navel and disappears beneath his jeans. My mouth goes dry and I’m filled with the urge to trace it with my finger. “I’ve always been kind of a nerd. I kept getting tested and the schools kept moving me up a bunch of grades. I graduated high school when I was barely sixteen.”
“Really? So you’re like a genius? How old are you?”
“Almost nineteen. I’m a junior,” I say, knowing that’s going to be his next question.
“Wow. No wonder you’re a tutor.” He laughs and shakes his head. “You make me feel like a complete dumbass.”
I should never have told him. I make everyone feel dumb when they realize what I’m capable of. And really? I’m not capable of much. I’m great at memorization. I have a photographic memory. I’m a fast reader. Big deal. “You’re not a dumbass,” I tell him, my voice gentle.
He settles his chair back onto all four legs, a giant grin on his face. “Did you just say what I think you said?”
“What do you mean?” Then I realize what he’s referring to and I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine, yes. I said a bad word.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a bad word.” His grin widens and it’s downright irresistible. I can feel my mouth tremble at the corners, ready to break out into a smile. “I’ll have you saying fuck in no time.”
“No way.” I shake my head, my smile blooming despite what he’s saying. “That is like the worst word ever.”
“Not even. It’s more like the most versatile word ever. You can use it in so many ways.” He stretches his arms out, then curls them behind his head, elbows bent, hands linked at his nape. His biceps bulge against the sleeves of his T-shirt and my body goes all fluttery and weak.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, it can be an adjective, a verb, a noun. It’s fucking magical.” He laughs when I glare at him. “I’m dead serious.”
“Prove to me all its uses, then.” I may as well turn this into a lesson. I have to go soon and clearly I’m not going to get any more work done, with the way he’s looking at me, talking to me. My concentration is shot.
For once, I don’t really care.
“Well, it can be used as a noun. ‘Chelsea is smart as fuck.’”
Oh my God.
Is he really using it as a noun, though? Even if he’s not, I’m not going to argue with him.
“And then it can be used as an adverb. As in, ‘Chelsea is so fucking smart.’”
I want to laugh but I clamp my lips shut. He knows it, too. The look in his eyes is telling. He’s totally trying to get a reaction out of me but I refuse to give him one.
“Or it can be a verb. Like, ‘Owen really wants to fuck …’” His grin fades, his expression going from amused to sexy in a millisecond. He drops his arms to his sides and shrugs. “You know what I mean.”
Everything inside of me goes loose and damp. I do know what he means. But is he referring to me?
No way.
“Um, yeah,” I finally say, slamming my textbook shut. “I should, uh, really get going. I have to be at the diner soon.” I stand and start gathering all of my stuff, keeping my gaze averted from his. He gets up, too, grabbing our dirty plates and stacking them before he takes them into the kitchen. I watch his retreating back, my breaths coming fast, my heart racing.
There is no way he was talking about me being someone he really wants to … I can’t even think the word. I press my hands against my cheeks, can feel the heat emanating off my skin, and I wonder if he saw me blush.
I hope not.
He comes back toward the table, stopping right in front of me. Reaching out, he grips the top of the chair next to him with one hand, his fingers curled around the metal so tight his knuckles go white. “Did I offend you?”
“What?” I zip up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder before I turn to face him fully.
“With all my ‘fuck’ talk. Did that bother you? I was just teasing. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He looks remorseful, a little worried, as he flicks his gaze downward at the floor. His eyelashes are long and thick, and golden-brown stubble highlights all the places on his face where I want to touch him. When he lifts his lids to meet my gaze once more, I’m dazzled by the look in his gorgeous green eyes.
Then I remember what he said. What he’s trying to tell me without coming right out and saying it.
He didn’t mean anything by implying he wanted to … me. Heaven forbid he misled me in any way.
“I get it. Really.” I smile, but it feels forced. Like I’m baring my teeth or something. “Don’t forget to turn in your assignments tomorrow.”
I turn away from him and hurry toward the door, ready to make my escape. My heart pounds with my every quick step and I need to get out of here quickly. I can’t take this any longer.
Being in Owen’s presence messes with my head. He’s too much.
And I am definitely not enough.
“I won’t forget.” He’s right behind me, lightning quick, and he reaches out around me, grabbing hold of the handle so he can open the door for me. “I’m sorry, Chelsea, if I embarrassed you. I didn’t mean to.”
I stand there in the middle of the open doorway, closing my eyes for the briefest second as the sound of his voice saying my name washes over me. I really love it when he says my name. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t like anything about Owen Maguire. “You didn’t. I’m fine. I just … I need to go and get ready for work. Thanks for the Chinese food.”
And with those last, extremely lame words, I escape from his house as if the very devil were chasing me.
