Destroy Me (Crystal Gulf Book 1) (8 page)

“Sure.” Something about letting him drink by himself makes me sad. Why were his hands shaking?

Eventually we both get comfortable. He kicks off his boots, his cheeks fill with the blush of his drink, and he keeps cracking jokes about the couple on the romantic comedy we’re watching. Sometimes he’s funny, but mostly he’s just mean. Which is also kind of funny. I appreciate my laughter, having not done so for the past week. I loosen up too; at least I think I do. I hardly drink because when I do I feel boneless. Like a noodle trying to not slide off a spoon.

“You tired?” he wonders when I yawn. He slurs when he does, making it sound like,
“Youn turd?”

It makes me giggle. “I don’t see how. All I’ve been doing is sleeping. But yeah, I’m tired.”

He pushes off from the couch, wobbles, and then lands it with a proud grin. “I’ll go home then. Let you sleep.”

“Call a cab.”

He swats me like he can swat at my words. “I can drive. I’m good.”

“You just said ‘Ike rive.’ You cannot drive. Just sleep here.” I get up so he can have the couch. “I’ll get you a pillow.”

He shrugs and falls back down on the couch. By the time I come back with a pillow he’s already out. His leg hangs off the side and his mouth is wide open. I sigh watching him, feeling so damn much like a noodle I kind of want to slide down next to him and sleep. I bet his chest is hard and his body warm. I miss Dylan’s warmth.

I move to lift Bach’s head so I can put the pillow underneath it, cradling his head before setting him down softly. He groans, rolling over onto his side and mumbling something that sounds like, “thanks, Square.”

“You’re welcome, Bach.”

I turn the TV and the lights off before I do something pathetic. Then I crawl under my covers and think about Dylan in his uniform.

I fall asleep listening to him scream.

Chapter Four

Bach

My hand flies for my face, blocking a blow. Always blocking his blows.

I sit up, sweaty and breathing hard. It was just a dream. Dreams. I laugh at myself. If I don’t laugh, I’ll probably cry. Only pussies cry.

I roll onto my knees. Strange apartment. Pizza. Vodka. Warm brown eyes. A soft voice giggling at my jokes. My memory catches up with reality. I’m at Harley’s apartment. I was only dreaming.
Stop breathing so hard. I’m at Harley’s apartment. Stop shaking. I’m at Harley’s apartment.

I push to my feet and stand there for a moment, my balance off. I didn’t drink
that
much, did I? The bottle’s empty. Harley’s cup is still full. She babysat her drink all night. She probably only had two drinks. But the bottle’s empty. A sharp, stabbing pain explodes in my chest and I swallow my regurgitation down. It tastes like pizza and vodka.

It was just a dream.

I look around, still half-asleep, confused, and ducking blows that haven’t existed for fifteen years. I feel seven fucking years old. If there was any vodka left I’d drink it to show myself I was twenty-two now, that the fire wasn’t chasing me anymore. I scratch my leg over my scars, scars that prove my dreams wrong. My feet stumble into the couch, over the couch, to Harley’s door. It’s open a crack.

I push it open the rest of the way and look in.

She’s sleeping peacefully. Her sleep looks nothing like mine. She’s not sweating. Her heart isn’t pounding. Her cheeks puff in and out evenly. She almost looks like an angel taking a nap. She could rise any moment and smile at me. I almost wish she would. The girls I wake up next to are covered in the previous night’s sins. Harley’s sin free. The light from her window creeps in from under her curtain, bathing her in gold. I squint my eyes because I want to see her better. I want to see something good for once in the morning. Her golden brown hair is splayed above her head. Her heart-shaped mouth is opened slightly. Her hand rests on top of her stomach. With each breath it rises. Up, down. Up, down. I watch her breathe evenly for so long I start to calm down.

But all of my calm dissipates when my feet move toward her. Why am I walking over to her? I feel like a creep watching her sleep. There’s too much sin on me for someone this unblemished.

I reach over and move the hair from over her neck. I fight with myself for a long time before I do it, but I can’t help myself. I have no impulse control anyway. I blame it on that. The sun shines on my hand as I do it. I feel as if it should burn me. It shouldn’t be able to touch me and her at the same time. Something that touches me should be dark, ugly. Not bright and beautiful.

Her body heat warms my cold hand. I trace a path along her neck, stopping at the lace neckline of her camisole. She isn’t wearing a bra, and her robe is gone, leaving her full round breasts visible through the thin fabric of her shirt. If she wakes up and sees me I’ll blame it on the booze. That’s what I’m doing. This isn’t me. I don’t wake up looking for what I had last night.

I can’t have what I had last night. I don’t even really want it. My nightmare’s screwing with me. Why should I wake up to an angel when I went to sleep a sinner? Why am I even thinking about this shit? It’s the vodka.

“Harley?” The sound of my deep voice makes me cringe. I clear it as I gently grab her hand and squeeze it. “Wake up, babe.”

Her warm brown eyes open slightly and she stares at me. The sun’s right in her eyes making the damn things gold. They’re fucking gold.

“Bach?” She glances at the other side of her bed in fear. “Why are you in my bedroom?”

The look of fear and disgust in her golden eyes hardens something in me. I drop her hand, step out of the sunlight and into the shadows. I’m Bach Bachmen again. “Don’t worry, Little Miss Perfect. You’d know if I took you to bed.”

My answer makes her frown. She probably doesn’t understand why I’m looking at her like I want to close the curtain, take her light. Like she took it from me.

“What’s wrong?” Even her voice is sweet in the morning.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep. I just wanted to tell you I was leaving. Thanks for letting me crash on the couch,” I add dryly.

“Okay … ” She raises on her elbows, watching me leave. “Thanks for the pizza!” she calls.

I leave her bedroom and grab my keys off the table in the living room before pulling on my boots without tying them. Before I leave, I knock back her lukewarm vodka and flat soda. When I step out into the real world the sun blinds me, causing me to shield my eyes as I make my way to my Corvette. I put my keys in the ignition but I don’t start it.

Dylan would kick my ass if he knew what I just did. I guess I didn’t technically do anything, but it feels like I did. I’ve never looked at a girl and just wanted to touch her. Well, I love touching them, it’s the stuff it leads to I really want, but I didn’t want any of that with Harley. I don’t even want it now. I simply wanted to touch something good. Is this what attracted her to Dylan? I bet it did, the bastard. I start my car, pissed off at him again. How could he leave me in charge of someone like that? She couldn’t even drink a watered down drink without gagging. She woke up covered in gold.

What bothers me the most is I know why he left me with her. He knows there’s no way in hell she’ll ever fall for my bullshit. Why do I even want her to?

“Fuck!”

I punch the steering wheel. This always happens when I have a nightmare. It takes me a few hours to shake it. If Dylan were here I’d wake him up, force him to play Assassin’s Creed until I felt like me again. But Dylan isn’t here.

When I get to my beach house I kick off my shoes and rip my shirt over my head. I peel my jeans off and then my boxers, crawl under the shower, and let the hot water massage the muscles in my back. Booze. That’s what I need. Or a new memory. If I drink enough it might feel like I have a blank slate. When I get out of the shower I dress without seeing what I put on.

I want scotch. Something light brown. It’s the only good my body can stand.

I drive to a bar deeper in town because I don’t want to talk and smile or pretend. I just want to get a new memory. This is the bar I go to, the one closest to where I run from, when I need to remind myself I got out. I keep my head down and sit at the end of the bar rather than the back like I normally do. The bartender’s a forty-something cougar. I know she’s a cougar because she always licks her lips when she sees me. Too old for me. Harley would be proud. Thinking of her reminds me of my goal.

“Scotch,” I tell the bartender. Something about her always bothers me. That’s why I usually sit at a table in the back and let the barmaids serve me, but I’m not thinking properly this morning. Today I want to be close to the alcohol. “A double.”

“Scotch,” she repeats, eyeing me strangely like she always does. “You got some ID?”

I roll my eyes and lean over, getting out my wallet and removing my ID. “Give me the shot first.”

Looking at my ID, she nods slowly. “Bachmen. You Tyler Bachmen’s son?”

I flinch like she smashed the bottle of scotch over my head. “Give me the fucking shot or I’ll get it myself.”

She doesn’t even blink. “Yup. You’re Tyler’s son. You look just like him. Talk like him too. Mean as a lion that man. But those damn eyes used to make me trip over my feet.”

“I am nothing like my father!” I shout, reaching for her. I don’t want to hit her. I don’t hit women. Not even that one bitch who keyed my Corvette. My father did though. I just want her to know to never compare me to that piece of shit again. I may not be the best guy, I’m selfish, and I’m an asshole, but I will never be my father.

“Whoa, whoa.” A big guy comes around the bar with a bat. “This here bat ain’t afraid of you like she is.”

I pause inches from grabbing the bartender’s shirt. She doesn’t look afraid to me. She even has the audacity to wink. She’s always looked familiar to me. Most times when I come here I’m not focused on her to have ever really wanted a closer look. I don’t have a choice but to examine her familiar features now. She was probably one of the women who used to sneak into the shed out back when Mom was out gambling, or one of the single mothers who made up most of the neighborhood I grew up in. She was probably twenty-something then.

I bring my hands back over the bar and straighten my shirt as I sit back down and nod at the bouncer. “Won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” he warns, sliding the bat over the bar top as he reclaims his seat.

She hasn’t stopped looking at me. “How’s that other one? The Meyer’s boy?”

“Just give me my shot.”

“You should meet my daughter.”

“Why?” I bark. Why the hell would I want to bang Forty-something’s daughter?

“Because,” she says, filling a shot glass to the top, “she has your eyes.”

The irony of her statement astounds me. I came here to forget. “Good for her. They’re damn beautiful eyes. Does my dad know?”

She nods, expression saddening and disgusted at the same time. “You don’t sound shocked.”

“I’m not. There are probably illegitimate children all over Crystal Gulf with these eyes. You weren’t the only one sneaking out the shed.”

When I say that her tired blue eyes widen. She looks at me sympathetically and yet her attitude continues to reek.

I know about her daughter. I remember Dad and Mom arguing one night about her at dinner. “That little bitch isn’t going to get half of our money,” Mom told him. “We already have one bastard to take care of. I ain’t taking care of two.” When Mom looked pointedly at me I had looked down at my fish sticks. I didn’t know she was Forty-something’s daughter. I look out for her though. The girl with my eyes. It’s pretty fucked up that I have to do it, but that’s part of being a Bachmen. We’re fucked up.

“On the house.” She fills my shot glass to the top again.

“Sorry,” I mumble, tossing the drink back.

“It’s all right, handsome. It’s not your fault.”

I spin the empty glass around, watching the last drops of scotch spin with it. “I wasn’t going to hit you. I’d never do that. I’m just having a bad day. Not that that’s an excuse.”

“I know.”

“How?” I look into her tired blue eyes, maybe wanting to know deep down whether I am in fact my father. I didn’t think I was anything like him, but that’s the thing about lies. Often times we tell the worse ones to ourselves.

“Because,” she says simply, “when your father wanted to hit something he hit it. A bat wouldn’t have stopped him.”

She didn’t have to tell me that. I knew my father’s propensity for hitting things far better than she ever would. That brings me no comfort whatsoever. “What’s her name?”

She smiles, her whole face lighting up at the mention of her daughter. “Hillary.”

“That’s a pretty name,” I tell her because I know she wants to hear something nice. It’s the least I can do. She’s raised her kid on her own her entire life on a bartender’s salary. Her daughter isn’t in a bar guzzling down scotch still shaking from a nightmare that happened fifteen years ago. That’s an accomplishment in and of itself.

“She’s a freshman in college. She wants to be a veterinarian.”

“That’s cool.” I wiggle my glass and she fills it up again. “Have one with me?” I wait for her to fill her own shot glass before I clink it against hers. “Here’s to illegitimacy. Cheers …” I lean forward to read her nametag. “Patty.”