Текст книги "Before & After"
Автор книги: Nazarea Andrews
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Chapter 9 : Before
The tattoo shop has become one of her favorite places. Which makes me irrationally happy. She’s becoming a fixture in my life. Her flame red hair brightens my view from the stage on Thursday and most Fridays, and she shows up at Keegan’s unexpectedly—the old bastard even warms up to her when she stops by and chats with him before she drifts to me and snuggles into my side.
But for all that we’re together (for all intents and purposes), she’s keeping part of herself wrapped in secrets and dodges my questions. There’s so much she doesn’t say—questions she dodges and slides away from, a past that she doesn’t want to share with me.
She’s balancing cross-legged on a stool at the bar while Scotty and I finish the setup and I glance at her, her eyes distant as she taps away on that damn computer.
“What is she working on?”
I shrug.
“You don’t know?” Scotty demands, his voice startled.
I give him the flat warning glare that usually manages to shut him up, but he just shakes his head, laughing. “Ask her.”
“Tried that,” I grunt. He huffs, a quiet noise of displeasure, and I nod.
“Are we playing the new song?" He asks.
I hesitate. I don't usually sing. I prefer to be in the background, playing drums while Scott plays rock god. It's where I'm comfortable–I've never wanted to be a rock star. I just want to create shit.
But occasionally, I'll write something that is too personal and he'll insist. I glance at where she's perched at the bar in a gravity-defying contortion as she works on something she won't share.
"Let's play it by ear," I say simply and he grunts in acknowledgement. "Can you finish this?" An eyebrow arches but he nods and I slap him on the back before I jog across the bar to where she's sitting.
I come up behind her, slipping my arms around her waist and pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck. I inhale the scent of her and get a quick peek at the computer screen, the words blurring as she closes it quickly and turns in my arm, her lips lifting up and finding mine. I smile against her as her fingers dig into my scalp and she shivers a little as I lick across her lips before pulling back.
“What do monkeys wear when they cook?”
Her eyes brighten and one corner of her lips hooks up into a grin. “I don’t know. What?”
“An ape-ron.” I deadpan and she laughs.
I lean in and steal another kiss, desperate for the taste of her laugh.
Peyton always tastes sweet and light, almost addictive, but when she’s laughing, it’s more than that—it’s like drinking down sunshine, and I can’t resist that. She sighs a little and I swallow my groan as I pull away from her, licking my lips to catch the last bit of her taste.
“Are you staying for the whole set?” I ask huskily.
She shrugs, her shoulders bare and delicate above a little tank top that makes me itch to pull it off of her. “Depends on how adoring your fans get.”
I bite down on the acidic response that wants to rise. I haven’t touched a girl—haven’t even looked at one—since before that first night that I talked to her. It’s been hell to listen to Scott fucking girls at the loft while I sat with my hard-on and fantasies of her lips around me. But I hadn’t touched them and I hadn’t pushed her for the more I knew she’d willingly give. Because there were too many secrets between us still.
“What are you working on?” I ask abruptly and her eye widen. Shutter. Block me out, and even though I expect it, it still fucking hurts.
She sees it and reaches for me. “Jokes.”
I pull back and shake my head. “This won’t work if we refuse to trust each other,” I say and her eyes flare with hurt and denial. I hate seeing that look in her eyes. But I bite back the apology and step back, toward the stage.
I want her to stop me. To explain. She doesn’t, and with a sigh, I return to Scott. Slip behind my drum set and sprawl on the stool. “I need to get fucked,” I grit out.
His eyes widen, and I know what he’s thinking. That it’s a bad idea, that I’ll hate myself for it later, that I’m self-sabotaging.
But he doesn’t say any of those things. He just nods at me and kicks off the set, and I follow him on the drums.
And I know that a pretty girl who looks nothing like Peyton will fall asleep in my bed tonight, after my best friend and I fuck her for hours.
If I know him at all, he’s already picked her.
Chapter 10 : After
I want to drown myself in you,
consume your soul,
until there is no you. no me.
only us.
(Rike’s poems to Peyton)
The phone is sitting on the table in front of me, and I twitch, smoothing my pants down. Again. I should have set this up for anywhere but here. It occurs to me now, when it’s too late to do anything to fix it.
I let out an unsteady breath and push my hair back. Stare at the phone. He hasn’t called to cancel, so I have to assume he’s coming.
I almost scream when the knock on the door comes, even though I’m expecting it. Waiting on it. It still startles me. I shift and wheel my chair to the door and pull it open.
Rike is standing there, and for just a moment we stare at each other. His eyes are desperate and alive with hunger, raking over me.
When Rike looks at me, it’s not just seeing. He devours me with his gaze, claiming every inch of me, a familiarity that hasn’t made sense. It does now, and I feel the press of his gaze on my bare toes, up over my legs and still healing body, lingering a moment on my breasts, and finally, coming to meet my own gaze. It’s invasive, like a touch, and I want to be bothered by it more than I am. I want to slap him into submission, want to remind him that I’m not his to look at that way. But instead, I flush, and almost purr, blossoming under the scrutiny.
“Come in,” I say, and he takes a step into the room. If I were standing, we’d be pressed against each other. As it is, I’m left craning my head back to stare at something other than his crotch. I scoot my wheelchair back, retreating to the far bed, where I sleep.
He’s quiet while I maneuver from the chair to the bed. “Do you want anything? I’ve got some beer in the fridge.”
Rike’s eyebrows climb and I shrug. “I don’t like it very much, but Tommy brings random shit by.”
His features cloud. “You love beer,” he says.
I blink at him. I haven’t had a beer in years. Since high school. And I hated it.
“Who is Tommy?” he asks.
“A friend. He’s been helping me while I stay here—I’m not incredibly mobile with that thing,” I say. He nods. I could add more—explain more—but frankly I don’t think he deserves it.
“Scott and Lindsay both say you know me. They know me. And neither of them are telling me shit, because you won’t let them.”
“I have my reasons, Peyton. I need you to trust them.”
“I can’t,” I say. “I don’t know you.” He flinches and I point at him. “And see that. Right there. That tells me I should and that you aren’t willing to tell my how or why. You do realize how fucked up this is, don’t you?”
He’s quiet, staring at me.
I want to sketch that look. Because it’s stealing my breath and breaking my heart.
“I’m trying, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I need you to work with me.”
“I want to,” I confess, and his gaze darts to mine. “This is terrifying. Not knowing anything—I want to know. I want to trust that you do and you’re doing this for a reason. But I don’t know you. And I need a reason to trust you. You want me to work with you. But you’re holding all the cards, and I need you to give just a little.”
He exhales heavily and shifts. I tense and he goes still. “Can I hold you? For just a minute?”
“Why?”
“Because I miss holding you. Because seeing you and not being able to touch you is killing me. Because I don’t want to say this.”
I nod and relief brightens his features as he pushes off the wall and comes to sit next to me. Not content, he reclines against the bed, and pulls me down next to him, arranging me to fit against him. One arm props under my head, and the other wraps around my waist, his fingers playing on the skin exposed under my tank top.
I can feel him, pressed against me at all points, his scent washing over me, and his lips on my hair.
And it feels so fucking right. Tears sting my eyes.
“I met you three years ago,” he says. “You were in my bar, and I was playing the drums. And I think I loved you before we ever spoke.”
""We were in love?" I ask.
He laughs, but the noise sounds broken. Almost sick. "Yeah, baby. We were. You were my whole world."
"And Scott and Lindsay?"
"My best friend, and you were rooming with Lindsay when we met. She actually brought you to the bar that first time, and you stayed."
My nose wrinkles and I twitch my shoulders. "Why? I hate bars."
"You liked to write there, while we played. Said it was inspiration."
I roll that over in my mind, playing with it. I don't know what to think of this. Of him. I can't deny that I'm drawn to him, that everything about him sets me at ease, but there is the simple truth: Rike, with his rough hands and too long beard, and tattoos tracing over his arms and neck—Rike isn't the kind of guy I've ever been attracted to.
"Talk to me, Pey," he says softly, his grip on me tightening just a little.
I shrug. "I don't know what to say. This is so—it's a lot, Rike. A lot to swallow and understand."
"I know that."
"Why didn't you tell me when I woke up?"
"Because who you are doesn't hinge on who loves you," he answers.
I twist to look at him, searching his face. "What if I choose that the person I am doesn't love you?"
I feel the flinch move through him, shaking him as he pulls me closer. His grip is so tight now, so desperate that it hurts. But I don't complain. I just burrow closer. Because if I walk away from him, I will not have this again, and I can't deny that the thought of that is enough to make tears swim in my eyes.
"If you need to be someone who isn't with me, I'll let you go, Peyton. I'll fucking hate it. But I've never wanted to keep you caged, and I won't be that guy now. I love you, and I want you in my life. Scott and Lindsay want you in our life. She needs you. But I want you to be happy, with or without us. And I'll watch you walk away, if that is what you need for your happiness."
"I'm scared," I whisper. "I want to hide in you and let you take care of me. This—" I meet his gaze"—feels right."
Tension fills him. "But?"
"But...if I do, I'll never figure out who I was. What I loved or why. Who I was outside of the girl who loved you. And I need to know that, Rike."
Pain tightens his expression for a moment, and he blinks it away. "I can't help you?"
I hesitate, the offer so fucking tempting. And his gaze, so hopeful. "Rike," I whisper, and his gaze flares.
"Peyton, don't hate me," he murmurs, and then he's kissing me.
His lips are gentle, and the scruff of his beard is sharply abrasive as it brushes against my skin. His teeth nip at my lower lip, and I whimper. He groans and shifts, pulling me with him as he lays back. A big hand comes up to lace into my hair, holding me still as he kisses me, his tongue tangling with mine, retreating and thrusting back. His other hand is on my hip, cradling it and pulling me closer.
I groan, breaking the kiss as his erection nestles between my thighs, and I grind down against him.
Rike curses, and his lips are against my throat, warm wet kisses and soft, dirty words. I flush. What the hell. I don't do this.
His hand on my hip slips lower, over my ass, and I startle, going stiff in his arms.
And just that quickly, the moment is over. He sits up, and shoves his long hair back as I shift off of him. Sit awkwardly a few inches away.
Too fucking aware of his still-hard dick and how amazing it felt between my legs.
I'm so wet I'm almost squirming in my seat, and he's watching me with hooded, dark eyes. A smirk tugs his lips.
"I won't touch you without you asking, Peyton. But I want you to remember something. When I leave and you sink your fingers into that creamy wet pussy—I know. I know what you taste like. I know how you feel, and how you look so fucking gorgeous when you come. I know what you sound like when you scream. And I'll get off tonight, thinking about you here."
I stare at him, and I can feel the hot flush in my cheeks, and he smiles. Leans down and kisses me.
And then he stands, adjusts his dick, and leaves me alone.
***
I don’t sleep well that night, or the next two nights. I’m horny and I want to get myself off—but after that first night, when I did come against my fingers, with his words playing through my head, the orgasm left me reeling, my head spinning and body shuddering. It was hot and sexy and dirty.
In the morning, a text had been on my phone.
Rike : Did you wait until you were in bed before you got yourself off, or did you do it as soon as I left?
I stared at it for a long time, and almost cursed when the second one popped up, the phone vibrating in my hand.
Rike : I got off before I left the parking lot. And again in the shower, picturing you on your knees and my dick in your pretty mouth.
I turn the phone off before I get another message, and spend the day reading a book and trying to ignore how horny I am.
The problem is, I’m not getting anywhere. And I know that there is a nearby source of information.
Tommy has been coming by, like clockwork, and he nudges my barefoot with his while I eat dinner two nights later. “When you gonna see Rike again?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I have an appointment tomorrow for my cast to come off. I was thinking I should probably see Lindsay while I’m there.”
“She’s still in the hospital?” he asks, his eyebrows hitching upward.
I nod. “I can't take you to the hospital tomorrow," he says, and I tense. I knew better than to assume he would. But I did it anyway. Tommy has been as reliable as the sunrise, but I've been here now for almost two weeks and he has to be getting tired of babysitting me.
"I'll figure it out," I say.
He taps the phone sitting on my side table. "Call him. He'll take you."
"You really are in his corner, aren't you?"
"I'm in the corner that gets you healthy and whole, Peyton. And he's part of that, even if you don't want to admit it yet."
"He's not my type."
"He is. Maybe he's not the type you think should be your type, but he's who you chose. And you hated that life anyway. Don't cling to your preconceived notions of who you think you should be because it's all you know. Be the girl you want to be for the rest of your life."
I consider that for a long time after Tommy leaves me alone, and eventually I turn on the phone.
The damn thing lights up with text messages and I flush, imagining how dirty and provocative they'll be.
I'm under no delusions that Rike has decided to leave me alone because I'm being quiet.
I ignore the messages, and pull up his number, dialing before I can chicken out.
"Peyton?" he says, and I can hear the surprise in his voice.
"Hi. Sorry. I don't mean to bother you, but—"
"You aren't. You will never be a bother. I thought we'd already gone over that."
I flush. "Um. Do you think you could give me a ride to the hospital tomorrow? My cast is coming off and Tommy can't take me. I think he got in trouble last week. But if you can't, I totally get it; I can get a cab to pick me up."
"What time?"
"Eleven. My appointment shouldn't take long, but I wanted to stop in and see Lindsay. If you have the time?"
"Of course," he says immediately. A tiny weight slides off my chest and I can breathe easier.
"Do you want to grab lunch, after?"
And just like that it's back.
"I don't know if that's a good idea," I say softly.
"I was your friend, long before you realized we were together, before. Let me be your friend, Peyton. You could use a friend."
"I need a friend who doesn't send me dirty texts," I say tartly.
He laughs, completely unrepentant.
"Fine. Lunch. But nothing fancy."
A secret smile colors his voice when he says, "Deal."
We're silent for a moment, and I can hear the sound of someone in the background calling his name, and I flush. "I should let you go."
"Yeah. I left a client in the middle of a tattoo piece. I should probably finish. But I'll see you tomorrow, perfect girl."
I hang up the phone, and turn it off. Because as much as I want to look at the texts I know it’s a bad idea.
But I can’t keep the smile off my face. Tomorrow, I’m going to see him again.
Chapter 11 : Before
I’m not sure what hurts more—my back or my head. It’s pounding and my back feels like I brawled with Scott. I glance down and mutter a curse.
I groan and roll to my stomach, propping my head in my hand as the world spins dizzily.
“Scott,” I croak.
“He went to get breakfast. Said to let you sleep.”
I jerk upright, and glare over my shoulder at the blonde girl leaning against the door jam.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Lindsay lifts one eyebrow, a quiet censure in that single move, and I am suddenly acutely aware that I’m naked in a room that doesn’t belong to me. “What happened?” I demand.
“You were drunk, Rike, but I didn’t think you were that out of it,” she says stiffly. I flip her off weakly and she makes a grumpy noise before retreating. I scramble to find some clothes in her absence, and tug on my jeans.
I hear a door slam, and for a moment, I think she’s gone before I hear Scott talking to her, his voice pitched low. Then he appears, and his eyes skim over me, assessing.
“What happened?” I ask. I haven’t been blackout drunk since the night—I shut that thought down and focus on my best friend. “Did I fuck her?”
Scott’s expression turns grumpy. “You’re a self-destructive bastard, you know that?”
I stare at him.
“You wanted to do this. Remember? You wanted to get laid and get Peyton out of your head.” His voice is mocking and angry.
I do remember. But the thought of anyone…it makes my stomach twist and I want to shower that dirty feeling away. A look of disgust flicks across Scott’s face and he steps into the room, crowding into me. “You’re being a dick, man. I know shit with Peyton is messed up, but there’s no reason to drag another girl into it. Especially a girl like Lindsay.”
My eyebrows climb. “Lindsay is a one night stand that keeps coming back. What the hell does she have to do with anything?”
Scotty makes a disgusted noise and turns away. “You called her a whore, man. And then passed out naked in my bed. I’d be careful who you throw stones at when you’re trying to cheat.”
I flinch but he doesn’t see and he wouldn’t care.
Scotty doesn’t like when we treat the girls like they’re disposable. It’s one thing to take a pretty willing thing back home for fun. It’s something else to treat them like trash.
“I asked her because I knew she wouldn’t go through with it. She wouldn’t let you fuck her. So even if you didn’t get your head out of your ass, you wouldn’t destroy the only good thing you’ve got going for you,” Scott says. “You’re welcome.”
I flinch. What the fuck was I doing last night?
No answers to be found in bed and I’m not quite ready to face either of them. So I do what any self-respecting dude would do and I duck into the shower.
When I emerge, I feel vaguely human. My head is still pounding and my stomach twists with the remnants of too much beer the night before. Or whatever we were drinking. I dress silently and then step out of the bedroom and come face-to-face with Scotty and Lindsay.
I manage, barely, to keep from making a face at the sight of her.
"Coffee?" she says, her voice false warmth. I grunt and she moves to pour a cup, shooting Scotty a dark look while she does.
"Someone want to clue me in on what the hell happened last night?" I grit out.
Scotty lets out a slow breath. "You wanted a girl. I don't know what happened between you and the siren, but we started the set and you drank yourself fucking stupid. Lindsay and I got you home and I knew you what you said—but when she tried to touch you, you flipped the fuck out. Almost hit her."
His tone is dark and furious and I understand it. I've never touched a woman. Not in violence. That I was that shitty… "I'm sorry," I whisper. There's a breath of silence, and I stare at the dark coffee swirling in my mug. I don't want to see the disappointment in Scott's eyes and I'm not ready to look at Lindsay, not yet. "I don't know what else to say. Just that I fucked up and I’m so sorry. It's won't happen again."
"Do you even understand why it happened this time?" Lindsay asks, and her voice is tinged with annoyance.
"Because you aren't Peyton."
"You fucking knew that, Rike. You weren't under any illusions about who you were going home with."
I wasn't but I don't like what that says about me. "Why the fuck were you about to cheat on her?" she asks. “Even if I wouldn’t have let it happen—what the fuck were you thinking?”
"It's not your business," I say, my gaze finally lifting to find hers.
"Bullshit. If you want that, you should probably avoid bringing me home. But here I am, and I got to deal with your shitty temper, so why don't you do us both the favor of being honest?"
"I was pissed. I don't know. It was a shit move and I won't repeat it."
She sits in silence for a moment, and I want to shove away from the table and bolt. Her gaze is too sharp and too assessing, and she doesn't like what she sees.
I don't blame her. I don't like me very much at the moment either.
"She cares about you, Rike. I know you're probably wondering, because I know Peyton. She likes her privacy and she fucking adores her secrets. But she likes you and she's let you get close to her. She doesn't do that for anyone. Don't fuck that up. And don't use me to hurt her. I'm not down with that bullshit."
My gaze cools and it skates over her, just as judgmental as hers on me had been. "Then what the fuck are you doing here?"
She shrugs. "I'm here for Scott, asshole. It has nothing to do with you."
I jerk, throwing a startled look at Scotty. He’s ignoring me, sipping his coffee with a careful eye watching Lindsay.
What the hell is happening here, and how did I miss it?
“If you got your head out of your ass,” Lindsay says, “maybe you wouldn’t miss it.”
Scott snorts a laugh and I realize I’ve spoken out loud. I flush.
“I’m gonna go,” Lindsay says. Scott rises and kisses her briefly, and my eyes narrow. “Call me later?”
He nods and she waves at me with a narrowed eyed look before ducking out of the kitchen. I hear the apartment door slam behind her and my eyes go wide as I stare at my best friend like I’ve never seen him.
“What the actual fuck, Scott?”
He shrugs. “She’s a nice girl, man. And we’ve both been bored, with you and Pey so wrapped up in each other.”
I stare at him for a long minute, long enough that he fidgets and finally looks up at me.
His eyes are bright and daring me to say something. And because I'm an idiot, I do. "You actually care about Lindsay?"
"Why the hell is that so hard to believe?" he asks.
"Because that's not your M.O."
"Taking a month to fuck a girl isn't yours," he snaps back. And stands. Rinses his cup with his back to me.
It's covered in tattoos and scars, and I know all of the markings as well as I know my own hands. Fuck, I put some of them there. "She matters, Rike. End of story. Go back to your siren, and try not to fuck up what we both have going on here."
He doesn't say anything else as he stalks out of the kitchen and I'm left standing with a cold cup of coffee and no fucking clue how the hell our life got so weird so damn fast.
***
She's furious when I step into the little deli. It's off the campus of UT , cheap and not very good, but she likes it and I humor her. Right now, she's sitting in our normal booth, her computer on the table next to her BLT, ignored as she taps angrily at the phone in her hand.
Her gaze, when it swings up to meet mine, is hot and hurt, her lips a tight unforgiving line, and I let out an inaudible sigh.
"What the hell were you thinking last night?" she snaps while I slip into the booth.
"Why do psychologist hate elevators?” I stare at her, my gaze pleading for her to pick up her line of the joke, but she just sits back and crosses her arms over her pretty breasts, glaring and waiting for the explanation I don't have. "Because they drive you up a wall."
It doesn't get a response, but I didn't really think it would. I just had to try.
"I'm not in the mood for that shit, Jokes," she says sharply. "You fucking took my roommate home last night. How the hell do you expect me to overlook that?"
"I didn't know Peyton was your roommate," I say softly."
Her eyes go impossibly wide. "Is that really what you're worried about right now?"
"I think it is," I say slowly, deliberately, weighing my words. My gaze flicks over her face. "I think it's the issue. I know all the reasons we shouldn’t work. I'm not good for you. I have a shit ton of baggage. I deal with shit by avoiding it, or picking a fight. By taking another girl home to fuck. Those are all the reasons we shouldn't work. But that's not the reason we'll fall apart."
"No?" she says sarcastically and I shake my head, leaning back. I'm mirroring her, and it pisses her off–her arms drop almost defiantly to the table top.
"It won't work because you refuse to trust me. You won't tell me a goddamn thing about you. You don't mind seeing my world—"
"What, a shitty bar and a record store? A tattoo shop? That's the only part of your world that you'll show me."
"That's the only part of my world that matters," I almost shout. "That's what I give a fuck about. So you can think it's shit. I don't give a fuck. But that's the reality of my world. A dirty bar, a shitty record store and a rundown tattoo shop. A best friend who doesn't know what the fuck boundaries are. That's what's important to me. The question is if you can deal with it."
"What the hell makes you think I can't?" she growls.
"Because you bolt every time things start to get serious." I shoot back. "You like the danger of it. You like me finger fucking you on the stage, you like that I'm not like all the other frat boys you play with. But you won't be honest with me for five fucking minutes."
She's pale and almost shaking in her side of the booth, her fingers white-knuckled as they clench around her glass of unsweet tea. "I'm honest," she whispers. "I’ve never lied to you."
I shrug. "There's a helluva difference between lying and not telling the truth. What is it about me that you want but can't stand to get close to? Because that shit won't work for me."
“I'm not the one who took another dude home. You took my roommate home and fucked her and you’re making it seem like I'm the one who fucked up."
"You don't trust me. So arguing with you about what happened isn't worth it."
I lean across the table and grab half her sandwich. She's staring at me and her eyes are furious. I sigh. "I didn't touch her. You can ask her and Scott if you don't believe me. Or you can tell me to fuck off and we can both cut our losses. Kinda wonder if that's not a good option."
"How can you say that?" she asks, hurt crossing her face, scrunching her brow and shadowing her blue eyes.
I shrug. "I know why this shouldn't work. I knew before I ever walked up to you in Barrie’s. But I don't give a fuck. I'm falling for you. And I want to think you’re falling for me. But you can't even tell me why you're in my bar or what the hell it is you do on that fucking computer. I find out after three weeks that the girl I fucked two months ago is your roommate. I can't do this. I can't fall for you if you're going to pull away from me and keep secrets. Because I won't be able to put up with them forever and eventually, I'll want to know some shit you aren't willing to share. And by then, I'll be in too deep." I look at her, and shrug. Smile a tiny little smile. "If this thing doesn't work, I'd rather it fall apart now."
I slip out of the booth. She's still staring at me, her eyes wide and terrified. Why the hell does she look so scared? I shove that thought aside. It doesn't matter. Even if I asked, she wouldn't tell me. She doesn't tell me anything.
“You almost cheated on me. You tried to cheat on me. How the actual fuck did this become about me?” She demands.
“Because the only reason I went to her is because of the secrets. I fucked up, even thinking about it. But this isn’t all on me.”
I lean forward, "This has to be more than good sex and superficial conversation, Peyton. As fucking awesome as that is, I can't just do that." I wait for her to say something—any fucking thing—to stop me. But she doesn't.
She sits there in silence and watches me as I walk out of the deli.
