Текст книги "Aflame"

Автор книги: Penelope Douglas

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter 9

Jared

The clay of the thumbprint charm was as smooth as water as I ground it between my thumb and index finger. The tattered green ribbon had frayed along the edges after years of being handled, twisted, and abused.

But nothing had changed. It was still loved.

The green still held the same vibrant shade as the tree between our windows, and all of the small lines and curves of her tiny fingerprint had survived.

Weathered but still solid. Fragile but unbreakable.

I lifted the beer to my mouth, emptying the bottle and wishing I’d brought another.

Sitting in Madoc’s empty and dark theater room, “Breath” by Breaking Benjamin playing throughout the house, I looked ahead at the black television screen—or screens, actually—seeing my own reflection staring back at me. And for the first time in two years, hating what I saw.

I was that guy again. The one who made her cry in high school. The one who broke her heart and stopped being her friend. The one who was a loser.

I was better than this. Why did I get in her face? Why did I always try to back her into a wall?

“Jared.” My mother’s voice fell behind me¸ and I blinked, coming out of my thoughts.

I slipped my empty bottle into the cup holder on the recliner and stood up, grabbing my jacket and sliding my arms into it.

“I thought you’d grown up,” she said, sounding far from disappointed. She must’ve witnessed what happened with Tate. And with her stern eyes and tight lips, she was pissed.

I looked away, hardening my armor. “One of the many things I love about you, Mother, is that you’re absolutely clueless as to who I am.”

Her chin instantly lifted¸ and hurt flashed in her eyes, even though she tried to hide it.

I looked away, shame heating my skin. She didn’t show her anger, but she couldn’t hide the pain in her eyes. It’s not like my mom was clueless. She knew that she had burned some bridges with me.

And I almost always reminded her.

Her hand went to her stomach, and I looked down and exhaled, seeing her small frame carrying her new start.

“I’m sorry,” I said, barely able to meet her eyes.

“So is that going to be a recurring thing?”

“What?” I asked. “Fighting with Tate?”

“Apologizing,” she shot back.

Yeah, I did that a lot, too.

“You’re not a child anymore,” she scolded. “You have to start being the man you want your sons to be.”

I shot my eyes up. Sons.

She knew how to make a point, didn’t she?

“You’ve always bullied her.” She sighed and took a seat. “Always. You might’ve been nicer about it when you were little, but all you had to do, even when you were eleven”—she smiled—“was hook an arm around her neck and lead her where you wanted her to go. And she always followed.”

An image of eleven-year-old Tate riding on my handlebars as I had the bright idea to race up a ramp and try to fly through the air popped into my head. I’d broken a finger, and she’d needed six stitches.

“But you always protected her, too,” she pointed out. “You jumped in front of her, shielding her from a fight or from danger.”

I slid my hands into my pockets and watched her calm eyes look at me with love.

“But she was a girl then, Jared, and she’s a woman now,” she stated matter-of-factly, her tone growing harder. “A man who stands in front of a woman does nothing more than block her view. She needs a man standing next to her, so grow up.”

I stopped breathing, feeling as if I’d just been slapped in the face. My mom was never motherly. And she certainly had no business giving others advice.

But fuck me, she was sounding kind of . . . smart, actually.

Tate didn’t need to be handled. She was already so strong on her own, as she proved time and again. She needed someone to share things with. Someone to make her life better, not worse. Someone she could trust. Like a friend.

I used to be her friend. Whatever happened to that guy?

I shot my mother a look, never giving away that she’d gotten to me, and walked past her, up the stairs of the home theater.

“And Jared?” my mother called, and I stopped and turned my head back toward her.

“Her father is getting married,” she announced. “He called tonight to give me a heads-up to keep an eye on her.” And then she took a breath and looked at me pointedly. “Not that you’re ever aware of anyone else’s feelings but your own, but back off, okay? I’m sure she’s a little tender right now.”

James was getting married?

I turned around slowly as I searched my head for what that meant. He was selling the house. Tate was going to Stanford. He’d have a new wife when she came home for visits.

And where would her home be? What—or who—was the one thing, solid and constant, that she could count on?

***

I pushed open the fancy black curtains in my old bedroom in my old house—no doubt an upgrade Juliet had made once she and Jax took over the room after I’d moved out. Since they were still at Madoc’s party, I had the place to myself, probably all night.

I threw my leather jacket on the chair in the corner and dug my cell phone out of my pocket, gazing through the forest of leaves to her darkened bedroom. No light, no movement, and no sound came from the house, but she had to be there. Her car was in the driveway.

Dialing her phone, I instantly caught sight of a small light—like a flickering star in a black sky—coming through the tree from her room. Her cell phone.

I watched as it flashed on and off with my rings, and then it went to voice mail, unanswered.

I squeezed my own phone, her silence hurting more than I wanted to admit. Tossing the phone onto the bed, I took off my shoes and socks and lifted up my window, slipping out, one arm and one leg at a time. I pressed my weight on the tree limbs, judging their strength.

After the damage done by the attempted cutting, I wasn’t sure how weak the tree might be or how much heavier I might have gotten since the last time I’d climbed into her room.

Holding on to a limb above me, the familiar feel of the bark under my fingers comforting me, I stepped across the limb we’d sat on the first time we met each other and the limb she’d scraped her leg on when she was thirteen when she slipped.

Reaching her French doors, I swung them open, stepped on the railing, and leaped onto her floor.

She bolted up in bed, breathing hard, with fresh tears covering her face. She looked confused and shocked as she supported herself with her arms on the bed behind her.

“Jared?” Her voice cracked as she sniffled. “What the hell are you doing?”

I took in the sight of her pained eyes, the tears reaching her chin telling me she’d been crying for a while.

God, she killed me.

Her sadness used to give me power, making me strong. Now it just felt like a pair of pliers pinching my heart.

Her light blue tank top hugged every curve, and from the sliver of pink and thigh where the sheet didn’t cover her, I could tell she was in her underwear. Her sunshine hair was parted on the side and fell over her chest in beautiful perfection. Even crying, she was the most perfect creature on the planet.

And just like twelve years ago when we’d sat next to each other in the tree for the first time, and I’d seen her sad about losing her mom recently, I didn’t care who stood in my way or what I needed to do.

I just needed to be in her life.

“I heard about your dad,” I told her. Every part of my body had relaxed, because this is where I was supposed to be.

She looked away, her defiant little chin lifting. “I’m fine.”

I instantly walked toward the bed and leaned down, gently turning her chin back to me and putting my forehead to hers.

“I’m never letting you go again, Tate,” I whispered, almost desperate. “I’m your friend forever, and if that’s all I get, then that’s what I’m taking, because only when you’re here”—I took her hand and placed it on my heart—“do I feel like my life is worth a damn.”

Her eyes pooled with more tears, and her chest rose and fell faster.

I cupped her face, rubbing circles on her wet cheek with my thumb. “Just let it go, babe. You wanna cry? Then, let it go.”

She looked up at me, the tears in her eyes shaking as she searched mine, and I hoped like hell that she could find some trace of the boy who loved her unconditionally.

And then, as if seeing it, she sucked in a breath, closed her eyes, and dropped her head, shaking with her despair and letting it all go.

I sat down and pulled her into my chest, lying down and holding her tight enough to convey that I would hold her forever if she wanted me to.

Her head rested in the crook where my arm met my shoulder, and her hand lay hesitantly on my stomach as she shuddered with the tears. I brought up my legs and just held her, suddenly warm with the realization that nothing had changed. I’d first shared a bed with her about ten years ago—two kids finding an anchor in each other when life had thrown us too many storms—and lying here, with the familiar shadows of the tree’s leaves dancing across the ceiling, I felt as if it was yesterday.

She sniffled and wound her hand all the way around my waist. I rubbed circles on her back.

“It’s so stupid,” she mumbled, the ache making her voice thick. “I should be happy, shouldn’t I?”

I just kept rubbing.

She inhaled a short, shaky breath. “I like Miss Penley, and my dad won’t be alone,” she cried. “Why can’t I be happy?”

“Because you love your mom,” I said, taking my other hand and lightly brushing the hair away from her face. “And because it’s been just you and him for a long time. It’s hard when things change.”

She tipped her head up and looked at me, her eyes still wet and sad but calmer now.

I caressed her face. “Of course you’re happy for your dad, Tate.”

“What if he forgets my mom?”

“How could he?” I retorted. “He has you.”

She looked at me, her eyes softening, and I pulled her in closer, tucking her head under my chin. Threading my fingers through her soft hair, I grazed her scalp and then dragged my hand down the strands over and over again.

Her body relaxed into mine, slowly melting like it always did.

“You know I turn dumb when you do that,” she grumbled, but I noticed the drowsy tease in her tone.

I closed my eyes, loving the feel of her slender leg sliding up over the top of mine.

“I remember,” I whispered. “Now go to sleep. Tatum.”

I might’ve heard her say, “Asshole,” but I couldn’t be sure.

Chapter 10

Tate

Cheesecake.

I flopped onto my back, the pillow under my head feeling as soft as a cloud in a Disney sky after sleeping so well, and I was strangely desperate for cheesecake.

Sweet and creamy and heavenly, and I swallowed, suddenly starving to indulge.

What the . . . ?

I glanced over at the other pillow—empty, but the remnants of his body wash had lingered, and I was glad he was gone. The smell that he’d left behind was so succulent that my mouth was watering for chocolate-covered cherries, champagne, cheesecake, and . . .

Him. God, I was hungry.

It had felt so good to be in his arms last night that I’d slept better than I had in months and awoke feeling calm and excited at the same time.

Heading into the bathroom, I brushed my hair and put it up into a ponytail, washing and rinsing my face afterward. Grabbing the mouthwash, I gargled, ridding myself of the leftover bitter taste of the glass of wine I’d had when I came home last night.

I walked back into my bedroom, taking a second glance out the French doors, which were now closed, and noticed that his old bedroom window was still open.

Hesitating only a moment, I jetted down the stairs, ready to ravage the refrigerator and cabinets to make pancakes and eggs and bacon and maybe some fresh bread. And maybe a BLT.

For some reason a BLT sounded really good.

Why was I so hungry?

I jumped the last two steps and immediately straightened, hearing music coming from the dining room.

Taking a left, I rounded the entryway and halted when I spotted Jared.

The tree on his naked back stretched taller as he reached up and rolled paint in a long strip on the wall and then returned to normal as he came back down, the taut muscles in his back and arms flexing and accentuating the fact that he hadn’t gotten lazy during his time away.

He was still wearing the same black pants as last night, but with his shirt off now, and I noticed his hands were splattered with drops of the café au lait color the painters were using as he rolled the thick paint onto the linen-colored walls.

“What are you doing?” I blurted.

His head turned to the side, and he glanced at me and then back to the wall, almost dismissive.

“We helped your dad paint this room, like, ten years ago, remember?”

I dug in my eyebrows, weirded out by how calm he seemed. “Yeah, I remember,” I said, still confused as I walked over and turned down Seether’s “Weak” coming off the iPod. “We’re paying people to do it now. They’ll be back to finish the job tomorrow,” I told him.

He glanced at me again, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And then he turned his attention back to the wall, dismissing me again, to continue painting.

I stood there, wondering what I was supposed to do. Go make a breakfast that I was no longer hungry for or kick him out?

He changed hands, putting the roller in his left as he absently smeared the paint that had dripped on his right hand on his pant leg. I almost laughed. The pants looked expensive, but of course, Jared wouldn’t give a shit.

I folded my arms across my chest, trying to restrain my smile.

Jared was painting my dining room. Just like ten years ago. He wasn’t grabbing me, fighting with me, or trying to get in my pants, either. Very well behaved.

Also like ten years ago.

Patience and peace radiated off of him, and my heart skipped a beat, finally feeling some semblance of home for the first time in forever. It was a summer day just like any other, and the boy next door was hanging out with me.

I buried the knot of despair I’d been carrying around and walked up behind him, picking up the second roller in the tray. Stepping up to the wall perpendicular to his, I rolled on the paint, hearing his uninterrupted strokes continue behind me.

We worked in silence, and I kept stealing glances at him, nervous about whose move it was to talk or what I would say. But he just bent over, running the roller through the tray and sopping up more paint, looking completely at ease.

We took turns, collecting more paint and spreading it over the walls, and after several minutes, my heartbeat finally slowed to a gentle drumming.

Until he put his hand on my back.

At his closeness, I stiffened, but then he reached around to my other side and grabbed the stepladder to take it back to his area.

Oh.

I continued rolling paint as he stepped up and worked closer to the ceiling, using a regular paintbrush to get areas neither of us could reach with the roller. I tried to ignore his body hovering over me as I worked my paint to the edge underneath him, but I couldn’t help how good it felt to have him close. Like the magnets were aligning again.

Like waking up to a summer rain tinkling against my window.

“You can’t use the roller to corner,” Jared spoke up, knocking me back into the moment.

I blinked, looking up to see his hand pausing midstroke on the wall and that he was staring down at me. I glanced to my roller, seeing that I’d run right into the next wall.

I mock scowled up at him. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

He exhaled a laugh, like I was so ridiculous, and climbed down, shoving the paintbrush at me.

“Handle that.” He gestured to his brush and motioned me up the ladder. “And try not to fuck up the crown molding.”

I snatched the brush out of his hand and climbed the ladder, glancing at him as I started to brush on short strokes and making sure not to cross the blue painter’s tape.

Jared grinned up at me, shaking his head before resuming my sloppy painting with a smaller brush, moving vertically down the corners in slow strokes.

I took a deep breath and ventured, “So . . .” I glanced down at him. “Are you happy?” I asked. “In California. Racing . . .” I trailed off, not sure if I wanted to hear about his life out there.

He kept his eyes on his task, his voice thoughtful. “I wake up,” he started, “and I can’t wait to get into the shop to work on the bikes. Or the car . . . ,” he added. “I love my job. It happens in a hundred different rooms, cities, and arenas.”

I could have guessed that much. From what I’d seen of his career through the media, he had looked in his element. Comfortable, thriving, driven . . .

He hadn’t answered the question, though.

“I breathe fresh air all day every day,” he went on, leaning down to give Madman a quick pet, and my brushstrokes slowed as I listened to him. “I love racing, Tate. But honestly, it’s a means to a bigger end.” He looked up at me, giving a half smile. “I started my own business. I want to build custom rides.”

My eyes went wide, and I stopped painting.

“Jared, that’s . . .” I stammered, trying to get the words out. “That’s really amazing,” I said, finally smiling. “And it’s a relief, too. That you’ll be off the track, I mean. I’m always afraid you’ll get in an accident when I see you on TV or YouTube.”

His eyebrows pinched together, and I winced.

Shit.

“You watch?” he asked in an amused tone, looking at me like I’d been caught.

I pursed my lips and redirected my attention back to painting. “Of course I watch,” I grumbled.

I heard him laugh under his breath as he started painting again, too.

“It’ll still mean some travel,” he continued, “but less than what I do now. Plus, I can build the business back here if I want.”

Back here?

So he might want to come back home, then? I looked away, liking the idea of him moving back, and I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like I was going to be here anymore, anyway.

He let out a sigh, regarding his work on the wall. “I love the wind out there on the track, Tate. On the highways.” He shook his head, looking almost sad. “It’s the only time you and I are together.”

I looked back down at him, a lump swelling my throat.

I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I never wanted other women.” His thick voice was practically a whisper. “I left so I could be a man for you. So I could come back to you.”

I dropped my eyes, slowly stepping down the ladder.

That was what had been so hard to understand. He had to go off and find himself—cutting me out of his life—by breaking up with me under the guise of not wanting to hold me back while he took however many years to get his shit together?

I locked my eyes on his dark ones and looked up at him, seeing a man who was so much the same, and yet, so different.

But maybe it hadn’t been a guise after all.

Maybe I was lucky, because I always knew where my direction pointed me, and I had it figured out. Maybe Jared had had too many downward spirals, too many distractions, and too much doubt to know what truly drove him.

Maybe Jared, like most people, needed the space to grow on his own.

Maybe we had just started too young.

“And what about the next time you need to shut me out, Jared?” I asked, licking my parched lips. “It was three years in high school. Two years this time.”

He put his hand on my cheek, his thumb grazing the corner of my mouth. “It wasn’t two years, babe.”

I eyed him. What was he talking about?

He bent down, wetting his paintbrush some more. “I came back at Christmas that same year. You were . . .” He hesitated, rolling the paint onto the wall. “You had moved on.”

I averted my eyes, because I knew right away what he was talking about.

“What did you see?” I asked, fiddling with the brush. I shouldn’t feel bad. I had every right to move on, after all.

He shrugged. “Only as much as I could handle. Which wasn’t a lot.” He glanced at me, holding my eyes.

I could tell he was trying to keep his temper in check.

“I showed up one night,” he started. “I’d just gotten started on the circuit, racing and making connections. I was feeling good and”—he nodded—“really confident, actually. So I came home.”

Six months. Only six months.

“I knew you were mad at me. You wouldn’t talk when I called or text back, but I was finally a little proud of myself, but I was never going to be truly happy without you, too.” He dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. “I showed up, and you were with someone.”

He blinked a few times, and I felt my stomach roll because I’d hurt him. I wanted to throw up.

Is that what Pasha had been talking about? The time she saw him almost cry?

But I shouldn’t feel bad about this. Jared had had sex with numerous women before we were together, and I’m sure plenty since we’d been apart.

“It was six months, Jared.” I grabbed some paper towels and turned to him, cleaning up the paint on his hands. “I’m sure you had been with someone else by that point.”

He stepped closer, reaching up to play with a lock of my hair. “No,” he whispered. “I hadn’t been with anyone.”

My eyes shot up. “But . . .” I winced, my gut clenching. “I saw you. I saw girls everywhere around you. At the tracks, hanging on you in pictures . . .”

I hadn’t moved on because I thought he had, but I never thought he was holding back, either. I assumed . . .

He let out a hard sigh, turning back to his painting. “The girls come with the crowd, Tate. Sometimes they want pictures with the drivers. Other times they just hang around like groupies. I never wanted anyone but you. That’s not why I left.”

A flutter swarmed through my chest, and I knew that my heart still wanted him, too. No one else had even held a candle to him.

“It was so hard living without you, Tate.” His voice sounded weary. “I wanted to see you and talk to you, and I’d lived so long with you as the center of everything, I just . . .” He hesitated, his voice turning thick. “I didn’t know who I was or what I was going to offer you. I relied on you too much.”

I looked down, realizing that he’d been wiser than me. Jared left because he knew he needed me too much. I hadn’t realized how much I needed him until he was already gone.

“I relied on you, too.” I choked over my words. “I said it in my monologue senior year, Jared. You were something I looked forward to every day. After you left, I constantly felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me.”

In our final year of high school, when I’d finally had enough of my childhood friend bullying me, I stood up in front of the whole class and shared our story. The loss, the heartbreak, the pain . . . They didn’t know what they were hearing, but it didn’t matter. I was only speaking to Jared anyway.

His timid eyes urged me as he said, “And now?”

I sighed as I absentmindedly dipped the brush in paint. “And now,” I led in, “I know I can stand on my own. No matter what happens, I’ll be okay.”

He looked back to the wall, responding almost sadly. “Of course you will.” And then he asked, “So are you happy?” He repeated my own question to him back to me, and I wondered why he asked that. I’d just said I’d be okay.

But I guess he knew that didn’t exactly mean I was happy, either.

No.

No, I wasn’t happy. He had been a piece of the puzzle, and nothing had filled the space in his absence.

I ignored the question and kept painting.

“Do you have anyone out there now?” I ventured. “Anyone you’re seeing?”

I brushed the wall in short, quick strokes, like I was petting Madman, as I watched him warily.

He dipped the brush into the paint. “After I saw that you’d moved on, I tried to as well,” he told me. “I’ve seen a couple of women since then, but . . .” He stopped and gave me a teasing sideways glance. “No one’s waiting for me.”

I cocked an eyebrow, digging the brush into the wall. A couple of women.

Now I was jealous.

“I’m proud of you for getting into Stanford.” He changed the subject, throwing me off. “Are you excited?” he asked.

I nodded, giving him a tight smile. “Yeah, I am. It’ll be a lot of work, but I thrive on it, so . . .” I trailed off, swallowing the lump in my throat.

I did want to go to California. And I definitely wanted to go to medical school. But I didn’t want to think about how things were changing forever back here. My dad’s marriage. The house going on the market. Having Jared close, but not having Jared.

He stopped painting and looked at me pointedly. “What’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem,” I retorted.

He approached me, cocking his head like he knew I was lying. Like he knew I still wasn’t happy.

I lifted my shoulders to my ears, denying it. “I said there’s no problem!” I laughed and then looked down. “And you’re dripping all over my feet!”

I curled in my toes as paint from his brush fell onto my skin.

“Oh, shit,” he said in surprise and lifted the brush up, smacking me in the face.

I growled, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Oh, shit!” Jared blurted out again, laughing. “I’m sorry. It honestly was an accident.”

“Yeah.” I opened my eyes again, squinting through the paint covering my lashes on my left eye. “Accidents happen.”

And then I shot out, running my paintbrush down his face and chest, sending him rearing backward.

“No!” he shouted, holding out his hands and still laughing. “Stop!”

I lunged for him again, and he darted out his paint brush, wetting my arm.

I scowled. “Ugh!” I barked. “You’re going to pay for that!”

And I raced after him as he dashed into the foyer. Reaching out my arm, I caught him on the back, swiping my brush up and making the tree tattooed there look a little snow covered.

He swung around and grabbed my wrist, pulling my back into his chest.

I squirmed, sending his brush falling to the area rug.

“Let go!” he ordered, tickling my sides. “Drop it now!”

“No!” I laughed, keeping my elbows locked at my sides to shield myself from his attack.

He grabbed my wrist, pulled it up, exposing my underarm, and tickled. I hunched over, crying out in a mix of terror and delight as my own paintbrush fell to the floor.

“Jared! Stop!” I shouted, my stomach tight with laughing so hard.

He let go, wrapping both of his arms around my waist, and we just stood there, breathing hard as we tried to calm down.

It felt so good. Having fun with him again.

I laid my arms on his, my breath catching in my throat but my heart still racing as I soaked in his heat at my back. My tank top was the only fabric separating his skin from mine, and without thinking, I turned my head, nuzzling into him.

His hot breath fell on my ear, and I leaned into it, feeling the clenching of the muscles in my womb and wanting his touch.

It had been so long since I’d been touched like this. The feel of Jared’s lips against my hair was more intimate than the most sexual act anyone else could do to me.

I tipped my chin up, teasing him with my lips as they grazed his. A thrill shot through me, sending flutters through my stomach as I felt him grow hard against my ass.

I inhaled his scent. “Jared,” I barely whispered. I darted out my tongue and flicked it along his top lip.

He jerked, sucking in a breath, and I felt a shot of pride at still being able to leave him speechless.

Craning one hand around my face to hold my mouth close to his, he teased, “I thought we were going to be friends.” And then I gasped as he brought his other hand over my shoulder and slid it down the top of my shirt, claiming my breast in his palm.

I closed my eyes on a moan. “Good friends,” I clarified. “Really good friends.” And I felt his lips curl into a smile against mine.

“Tate!”

A knock sounded on the door, and I jumped, blinking.

What?

No.

“Tate, you up?” Fallon said, and I looked at Jared, feeling my body suddenly go cold. Damn it.

The ache where I needed him made me groan, and I watched him blink long and hard, letting out a frustrated sigh.

“Fuck,” he seethed, letting me go.

I could still feel him through his pants, standing strong and hard, and it was for me. Goddamn it, Fallon!

She opened the door, and we both straightened, knowing how guilty we looked. I was sure I had a blush all over my body. I could feel the heat of my skin.

“Oh.” She stopped short, her forehead scrunching up. “Hey.”

I shifted my eyes, smoothing down my clothes. “We were painting.”

Jared snorted behind me, but I ignored him.

Fallon nodded. “In your jammies,” she said more to herself than to us. “Perfectly normal.”

I arched a brow at her as she stood there in her workout shorts and tank. We ran on Sundays, and I was late.

“Jared?” I cleared my throat, unable to hide the amusement from my face as I turned around. “Go home.”

He shot me his little know-it-all smirk, and I jerked when he brushed his palm over my ass and then walked past me, out the front door. Leaning down, he gave Fallon a peck on the forehead. “Your timing sucks,” he grumbled and walked past her.