Authors: Nazarea Andrews
I
nod, and she tugs on my arm until I’m close enough that she can hug me, and I
hold her. Neither of us mentions the tears that are spilled. Neither of us lets
go, for a long time.
“Lindsay?”
“Hmm?”
“What
were we doing that night?”
She
releases me slowly. Meets my eyes, hers wide and cornflower blue. Assessing.
“Are you sure you’re ready to hear?”
“No.
But I’ve been hiding in my little hotel room. It’s comfortable and I don’t
really want to venture past it. It’s safe, not knowing who the hell I am and
how I ended up with Rike and you and Scott But. It’ not really living, is it?”
She
watches me for a moment. Then, “We were at my bachelorette party. A few girls I
work with organized it; they were in the wedding. And you were trashed, because
you were doing my shots. I wanted to be sober for the wedding.”
“What
happened?” I whisper.
She
hesitates. And then she tells me everything.
Chapter
13
:
Before
I
don't answer her phone calls. I'm too angry, and there's the simple truth. I
want more than just a fun time. I think that's the worst part. That if she were
any other girl, I wouldn't give a fuck. It wouldn't matter if Scott liked her
or if I could share the important bits of my life with her. I wouldn't give a
fuck that she was keeping so much from me. It would be almost a relief.
But
because it's Peyton, and because she's been different from the very first time
she stumbled into Barrie’s, I care. I can't quit caring. And it's driving me
batshit crazy.
So
I ignore my phone and Scott ignores my moping and we both ignore the pointed
stares Lindsay gives my phone when it rings. She's spending more time at our
apartment. It makes me vaguely nervous. She's overlap in a relationship that I
have very little control over.
There
is a strange and unpleasant irony in the fact that I'm worried about Lindsay
spilling secrets to a girl I'm angry at for keeping secrets.
I
spend a week locked in my own head, pouring it all out into words I put to
music. Because I've always been really fucking good at making music.
"Are
you going to let me play these?" Scott asks on Monday night when I play
through the riff on yet another 'you-broke-my-heart’ anthem.
I
shrug and he scrubs a hand through his hair. But he doesn't argue, just
retreats with his guitar and listens while I strum on mine, making notes before
I lose myself in a six-pack.
The
tattoo shop is always quiet on Tuesday, which is why we prefer to head there
then. A few guys are talking to Arsenal about a piece that they brought in, and
I eye them warily. If I know anything about Arsenal, he'll flag me down in a
few minutes.
Scott
slides along the counter, careful not to touch it. Rabbit is a good dude, but
he hates to have the display case coated in fingerprints.
"She's
waiting," he grunts at us, and I nod briskly at him before following Scott
towards the back stall.
"Rike.
Can I get a minute?"
I
slow and glance at Scott who nods subtly before I beak off to flank the tattoo
artist. He holds up the sketch and I skim, trying to keep my face blank.
It's
such a douchebag tat. A reaper with a scythe and a fucking crow. I glance at
the guys. "Who is it for?"
"Me.
I drew it up." The dark-haired dude is clean cut, and he flushes, rocking
back on his heels nervously. Like he knows it's not good. "It's just an
idea."
I
stare at the drawing for a minute longer. "What does it mean?"
Twenty
minutes later, I retreat as the guys make an appointment and Arsenal gives me a
quick, muttered, “Thank you. I duck into the back stall where Scott is already
laid out, his head pillowed on his arms while Staci goes to work.
"Did
Arsenal need some artistic input?" she asks, and despite the fact that
she's bent over my best friend's back, I can hear the gin in her tone.
"Yeah.
Dude wants a reaper." She snorts and I nod. "I'm tweaking it. It'll
be more Charon and the river Styx than reaper and birds, but he'll love
it."
"Make
sure Arsenal gives you a cut. That's original artwork so you know he'll charge
for that shit."
I
nod, but I don't plan on following through. I love the shop, and I love the art
that goes into it. But I'm not so talented that I think I should be paid for my
shit drawings. If some douchebag wants it tattooed on his back, that's his
business, not mine.
"You
good, bro?" I ask, and Scott grunts, a strained noise. I glance at what
Staci is bent over and make a low noise of sympathy.
It
hurts like a bitch to have your spine tattooed. I sit down in the corner of the
booth, slumped on the ground, and listen to the rhythmic start and stop of the
tattoo machine, the smell of ink and antiseptic filling my senses as all the
stress of the week, of the fight with Peyton, slips away.
I
fucking love this place. It's probably the only place I can get close to
feeling what I do onstage, when there is only the high of the music and the
energy of the crowd as they chant along to my songs.
“You
know, you’re a good artist," Staci says, her voice quiet as she works.
"You'd do
good
here."
I
blink out of my thoughts and stare at her. She's watching me with careful,
bright eyes and I laugh, a startled noise. "You aren't serious."
"Why
not? It'd be nice to work with a real artist, instead of someone who just
copies the shit he finds online. You do
good
with the
clients. And you’re both here enough. Why the fuck not?"
I
stare at her for a long moment, and then laugh. Shake my head.
"I
think it's a good idea."
Her
voice snaps my head up and Scott lifts his lazily, earning a swat from Staci
while she barks, "Stay still for fuck’s sake."
I
barely hear it. Peyton is standing in front of me, looking faintly sick to her
stomach as she clutches her bag like a shield and stares at me with wide, wide
eyes.
She's
so fucking gorgeous it hurts, and seeing her, something in my gut settles, a
shard that was out of place sliding where it belongs with a sick snick that
makes my stomach churn and my head spin.
It
feels right.
I
told her I wanted to know now if this was just a distraction, wanted to know
before it was too late to get out without getting hurt.
But
staring at her, I know the truth. It's too late already. Maybe it's always been
too late where she's concerned.
This
girl will break me into a thousand pieces, and I won't even care. I'll shatter
with a smile and thank her for the chance to care about her, even from a
distance.
"What
are you doing here?" I ask, pushing to my feet. She's standing close
enough that when I rise, I'm almost pressed against her, and for a moment, all
I can smell is sunshine and sugar and her. I sway close to her without meaning
to.
“We
need to talk,” she says softly. I glance back at Scott. The session has just
started and he’ll be under Staci’s machine for the next two hours, while she
traces ink up and down his spine in intricate clockwork.
“Go,”
he says gritting his teeth when the needle bumps over his spine and I nod once.
Grab her hand and pull her out of the stall and onto the sunlit sidewalk outside
Dragon’s Head Tattoo. I let her go almost immediately and she shifts, nerves
playing over her features.
“Talk,”
I say and she lets out the breath she’s been holding. I can hear the
frustration in her huff, but I ignore it. I can’t let myself care about that
right now.
Even knowing I’m being an ass, I can’t let myself
care.
“You
want to sit down or something?”
I
shrug, and slip my shades on. It’s a dick move, hiding behind the mirrored
lenses. I do it anyway. "What are you doing here, Peyton?"
"I'm
the daughter of a southern Baptist small town politician," she says,
abruptly. "Daddy started out a doctor--had a real nice family practice.
But it wasn't enough, and when I was in middle school, he went into politics.
It became everything our family was. He was mayor and then our representative
in the state legislature, and it just--it never ended. Every election was a new
step and it didn't ever stop."
I
stare at her, and she shrugs. "Everyone expected me to be a good little
southern belle. Perfect Daddy's girl at the political dinners and events and
rallies. And I was. I was really good at it. I played my perfect part really
well."
There's
something in her tone that has me nervous and I shift, reaching for her. She
jerks back, out of my reach. "Just. Let me say this," she almost
begs, and I nod.
"I
hated it. I was good at it, and I did what they expected, but I hated it. I got
involved in drugs. Nothing too serious, just shit that I knew would piss off my
parents, if they were to find out. Binge drinking and random hookups." She
laughs as my stomach churns. "Sometimes I think it's a miracle I made it
through high school. I was the epitome of self-destructive. But the part that
really fucked me and my parents up was the eating disorder." She takes a
deep breath and digs into her bag, pulling out a beat up journal that she
extends to me silently. "You want the truth. Want to know what I'm keeping
to myself. It's in there."
I'm
shaking my head and stepping away from her even while she's still speaking.
Because I might want the truth, but I sure as fuck don't want it that way,
because she thinks she has to give it to me. "I want it when you’re ready
to share," I growl.
"I'm
never going to be ready to share this, Jokes. That's the thing. I hate who I
was. It's why I left and came here. Why I don't talk about my past and where I
came from, why I rarely go home, and have almost nothing to do with my family.
Because I don't want to be that girl anymore and the only way I know how to be
someone else is to BE someone else. I don't keep you on the outside because I
want you there. I keep you on the outside because I'm still trying to figure
out who the hell I am."
"You're
Peyton," I snap, fiercely, stepping into her and pulling her against my
body with a hand on her waist. "You’re mine and you’re fucking perfect. I
don't give a fuck what your past was."
She
smiles sadly. "You do.
You might
not want to care, but you do. You can't help it. It pissed me off to no end
that you almost fucked Lindsay. It was a fucked move.
I get it. I get why you were upset."
I
stare at her and she lifts a hand, the tips of her fingers brushing over the
stubble on my jaw, higher to push into my hair, and I lean into her, my
forehead resting against hers. "It doesn't matter."
"Look
at it. Read it. Then tell me that." She kisses me, a brief press of her
lips and the hint of summer sweet sugar before she pulls back.
Chapter 14
:
After
It's carving my future into your
Skin, with lips and fingertips,
Twisting our lives together until
there
Is no way to
be
Anything but us.
Mapping the ink and curves
Of you until I know them
Like my own soul.
(
Rike’s
poems to
Peyton )
“You
ok?” he asks, and I glance at him. I’m reeling from what Lindsay told me.
She
was getting married. I was her best friend, the maid of honor, the only person
in Austin she really cared about besides Scott and Rike. It was us four against
the whole world and we were fucking winning.
It
was us two, privileged debutantes, and them, bad boys with tattoos and a past
that made me cringe. And we made it work. We thrived.
And
then it shattered.
Sometimes, the fairy tale is too
fucking good to be true.
That
was the only time Lindsay sounded bitter. And she had been. She’d been furious.
I get it, though. She was on the edge of having it all—and something as
senseless as a distracted cab driver snatched it away.
I
might recover. I might get my memories back. But Lindsay would never walk away
from the devastation of the accident.
“How
is Scott?” I ask. His gaze flicks to me, startled. I shrug. “What’s happening
to me doesn’t affect just you, and his fiancée is in that hospital still. How
is he dealing with everything?”
Rike
blows out a breath and flicks the blinker on, hitting the highway and speeding
up. “He’s a mess,” he says honestly. “He should be on his honeymoon, and riding
the wave of his band’s success. Instead, he’s spent the last month figuring out
how the hell to keep her from leaving him and how he’s going to take care of
her.”
I
jerk around, staring at him. “Why the hell would she leave him?”
“Because
she’s scared. Because she wants what’s best for him and always has. She won’t
think that’s her, now that she’s in a wheelchair. Lindsay—she’s the best thing
that could have happened to Scott. But it’s not easy being with him, and she
won’t be the person to make his life harder unnecessarily.”
“But
she loves him,” I protest shrilly.
His
gaze slides to me and a bitter smile tugs the corner of one lip up. “Sometimes
love isn’t enough, Peyton.”
He
hits the blinker again, swerving for the exit, and I clutch at the door of the
truck. We’re getting off the highway, and I glance out the window.
“Where
are we? I thought we were going to get lunch.”
“We
are,” he say.
The
house he pulls up to is in a well-cared for neighborhood. The grass is a dirty
green, and the flowerbeds a little overgrown, but there’s a wraparound porch
with comfortable looking patio furniture, and a privacy fence hides the
backyard.
I
look at Rike, confused, and he grins at me. “I didn’t say where we were going,
sweetheart. But this has been your favorite place to have lunch since the day
we moved in.”
“This
is our home?” I whisper, even though I knew. Of course it is. What else could
it possibly be?
There
is a tiny part of me, staring at this gorgeous house, that wants to race inside
and soak it all in. Remember everything. Lie in the bed where I was happy.
A
bigger part—the larger part—is terrified, and for a moment, I’m stuck to my
seat, staring.
Rike
pulls open the door and holds out his hand. His eyes are hopeful. And before I
consciously make the decision, I put my hand in his and let him pull me from
the truck. Against his body, all hard and hot against my own.
“Are
you going to behave if we go in there?” I ask huskily, and then flush. I can’t
believe I just asked that.
A
slow smile curls his lips. “Do you want me to?”
I
laugh, and step back. Because I’m a little terrified about how much I really
don’t want him to.
“Come
on,” he says, handing me the crutches and pacing me up to the door. I
kinda
love the way he’s so carefully attentive, his hand on
the small of my back to brace me as I make my way up the three stairs to the
front door before he swings it open.
The
house is messy—not terribly surprising considering that I’ve been in the
hospital. And it’s huge. I glance at Rike. “Did we live here alone?”
“No.
It was originally a house with an apartment, and we thought it’d be perfect for
us. The apartment has a small kitchen, so when we want privacy, we just go
upstairs. And your studio is in the garage loft. Scott and I keep most of our
shit in the garage, and that’s where he’ll practice with the band when they’re
just fucking around. Lindsay works downtown, so she didn’t get an office, but
we all have our space. And when we don’t want the space, we’re together.”
His
eyes are bright and almost stupid happy as he talks about it and I can see it,
can picture the life he’s painting out.
“Where
is our room?” I ask, softly.
His
eyebrows go up, and he points toward the back of the house.
“Do
you want to see it?” The question is soft and very vulnerable.
“No,”
I say. “Not today.” He nods and steps into the large kitchen. Pulls a bowl of
soup from the fridge and starts heating it, and pouring us both tea. He’s
efficient and brisk in his movements, a graceful poetry in motion doing
something so simple and mundane.
But
there is nothing simple or mundane about Rike. He’s gorgeous, with his shaggy
black hair and the beard that is growing on me. The tattoos curving on his
long, strong arms and licking across the skin over his fingers.
He’s
everything I never expected to want, but this feels familiar. He’s who I chose.
This unconventional, beautifully confusing life.
Scott
and Lindsay.
They
are the life I chose.
“How
did we get here?” I whisper, and
Rike’s
gaze snags
mine. I shake my head, helplessly. “This isn’t what I pictured, Rike. This is
nothing like I imagined my life. And I understand that it’s what I chose. But I
don’t remember, and I can’t reconcile it.” His expression falls, and I make a
tiny noise, reaching for him. “I am trying, Rike. I just—it’s a lot.”
“I
know,” he whispers. “I want to help, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to
give you the space you need when all I want is to bring you home.”
I
reach for him and catch his hand, twisting our fingers together. He stares at
our fingers, until the microwave dings and it jerks both of us out of our
thoughts.
The
soup and crusty bread he brings out is delicious, creamy potato broth with a
spicy sausage. But the tension between us strings tight and uncomfortable, and
it makes my stomach twist, until I finally put the food down.
Rike
is waiting, because as soon as I stop eating, he shifts, gathering the bowls and
taking them to the sink.
“There’s
some stuff in your office. I think you should look at it. Will you come
upstairs with me?”
I
nod, and he grins, shifting over to me and lifting me up from the chair.
“What
are you doing?” I breathe out as he cradles me against his chest.
His
eyes are so close, so blue I could get lost in them, and I have to look down,
because I can’t get lost. Not yet. Not until I’ve found myself.
“Stairs,
sweetheart. I’ll carry you up.”
The
loft is captivating. Half-finished canvases sit on easels, a sketch and tiny
cut piece of papers waiting to be assembled cover a large table, and sculptures
clutter a corner in various states of finish. A stained glass window filters
light in, beautiful and ethereal, and I feel like I’m in a church. Like this is
where I am supposed to worship, and where everything is right. Rike sets me on
a deep red leather chaise lounge in a corner of bookshelves and I shiver. The
table next to the chaise holds a notebook.
He
follows my gaze. “You wrote constantly. Sometimes it was things you’d share
with me or
Linds
, but it was usually just for
yourself, and it was incessant.”
“Do
you think that reading the journals could help me remember?” I ask.
He
nods without hesitation. “Yes. And they’re yours. Please. Go through them.”
I
nod and shift back, getting comfortable against the chair, and he smiles, his
eyes soft. “I remember when I bought that chair for you. It was right after we
moved here, and we had been out, downtown. You saw it at this tiny place that
sold art and you fixated. Brought it up every few days for weeks. So I went
down and picked it up one night after I finished a pretty big piece on a
client. Surprised you with it. It was like watching a kid on Christmas morning.
I fell in love with you a little more that day.” He laughs, a little, at
himself. “I fell in love with you a little more every day, Peyton.”
I
make a tiny noise, and his gaze snaps to me.
Later,
when I think about it, I’ll be sure he moved first. But the truth is we moved
at the same time. I reach for him at the same time he wraps a hand around my
neck, lifting me up.
His
lips meet mine, and the world explodes. Everything is about him, about the
rough urgency of his lips against mine, and his hands that shift me, just the right
angle to my head. His tongue licks over the seam of my lips and I gasp, and
he’s everywhere, his tongue tangling with mine.
He’s
not just kissing me. He’s devouring and conquering, claiming me. And I make a
tiny little noise, almost
a mewl
, and let him.
His
body comes down, knees on either side of me, and I want more of his weight,
more of that maddening lazy tongue, more of his clever fingers, brushing over
my skin, everywhere and nowhere.
“More,”
I gasp, and he grins against my lips.
“More
what, perfect girl?” he murmurs. “Tell me what you want.”
Tell
him what I want? How the hell am I supposed to do that? I shake my head and his
lips skate down my jaw, over my throat in wet, nipping kisses that have me
aching. He pushes my shirt, a blue button-down over a white, lace-trimmed
cami
, aside, and his fingers are on my breasts, circling
and circling, endless torture. “Do you want my mouth here?” he murmurs, and I
flush.
Why
can’t he just fuck me? Why must he hear it? His fingers ghost over my nipple,
pinch sharply, and I gasp, “
Yes.”
Rike
makes a low growl and yanks my
cami
down, shoving
aside the pale pink bra cup and I moan as the wet heat of his mouth closes over
me, pulling hard on my nipple. His teeth rake over it and I almost come off the
damn chaise. His hands are moving, one cupping my breast through the clothes,
the other skating lower, sliding under the hem of my shirt to play over my
torso. His tongue circles my nipple, slow and lazy, and I jerk on his hair,
pulling him up and kissing him. He groans, and I can almost feel him fighting
to pull away. His gaze is clouded and hungry when he demands, “What do you
want, Peyton? Do you want my fingers”—he brushes against me over my jeans with
his fingers and I shiver—“or do you want my tongue?” I shudder, my head falling
back. A low chuckle rolls over me. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.
Tell me how bad you want to come riding my lips.”
I
shake my head and he unzips my jeans, and slips a hand inside. I scream as his
fingers slip through me, playing over me, and his thumb rubs over my clit.
“Say
it, Peyton,” he demands hoarsely. “Say what you want.”
“You,”
I whimper.
He
curses. “Not enough. Tell me you want me to tongue-fuck you. That you want to
taste yourself on my lips when I’m inside you. Tell me.”
His
fingers move again and I growl, “Fucking do it or don’t. Get me off or don’t
but don’t fucking toy with me. Yes, goddammit, I want you to eat me out until I
come.”
He
grins, and moves, faster than I can really process. One second he’s hovering
above me, and the next he’s between my thighs, my jeans hanging around my
ankles as he lowers his head and then nothing matters. There is only the glide
of his tongue against me, the fluttering pressure as he tongues my clit, and
the slow thrust of his fingers. He licks at me, the tip of his tongue circling,
until I have my hands in his hair and my body is moving, writhing against him
as he uses lips and tongue and teeth to drive me fucking insane.
My
whole body is tight, and I gasp when he thrusts into me with his tongue, my
vagina clenching down when he pinches my clit, a delicious agony.
His
fingers are against my ass, smoothing over my cheeks as his tongue fucks into
me, and he slaps me, a sharp hard slap, and I splinter, screaming as I come, a
wave of sensation that rips through me. He’s rising before my heartbeat slows,
and he kisses me.