First Love: A Superbundle Boxed Set of Seven New Adult Romances (167 page)

As soon as I shut the door behind her, a little bundle of brown and white fur barrels down the grand staircase in the foyer, and I brace myself for Molly to launch herself into my arms. Except she doesn’t. Instead, she leaps up against Angel’s long, slender legs and immediately begins to lick her offered hand.

Fucking mutt. Even she isn’t on my side. “That’s Molly.” Molly is technically my dog, but she’s happier out here at the farm than in my apartment in the city, so she stays here most of the time where she has space to be herself.
So why can’t you give Angel the same courtesy you show the dog? Is Molly any less yours because she’s here?

I try to push that thought away, because it isn’t one I want to harbor for long or else I might start turning my anger at myself instead of at Angel. And it’s so much easier to be mad at Angel.
 

“Molly’s adorable.” Angel laughs between the dog’s frantic kisses. Even as angry as I am, her laugh still tugs at my heart, but it’s bittersweet.

“Don’t tell her too much; it might go to her head.” I reclaim Angel’s suitcase from where I dropped it when I heard Molly coming and start up the stairs. I pass by the closed door of my bedroom—I was going to put her in there, but I’ve changed my mind—and into the guest room at the end of the hall. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep at night if I have to lie there and imagine Angel here, alone in my bed.

Who am I kidding? I’m not going to be able to sleep anyway. Her suitcase plunks onto the hardwood floors with more force than necessary—but not enough force to make me feel better—and I spin toward the door. I’m suffocating, and I’ve got to get away from here before I completely fucking lose it.

“Arion.” Angel reaches out, lightly resting her fingers on my arm as I brush by her, back into the hall—now free of her suitcase but not free of the pain gnawing at my insides as I think about her not coming home with me.
 

I don’t want her sympathy; she’s the one who’s doing this to me in the first fucking place. “Come on, I’ll show you the barn before I go. Don’t forget to water the plants in the kitchen, and Molly’s food is in the garage.” I know my tone is needlessly harsh, but so was her choice.

Her hand falls away, and her lips press into a thin line. “Okay,” she says in a small, resigned voice.

My heart hardens, trying to shut out the thought that this is hurting her, too. She chose this. It didn’t have to be this way. The walk to the barn is miserable—not from the punishing rain but from my stubborn refusal to talk to her about what we’re doing and why. I try to make my resolve to be as indifferent and as hard as the matching stone foundation that decorates the base of the house and barn.

My dad redid all of the interior and exterior finishes on the property after my mom left, as if he was trying to erase any sign of what they’d built together. I think I finally understand, because so help me God, if I could erase the ache that Angel’s injected into my heart by doing a bit of remodeling, I would.

The door to the main barn glides on a track, revealing both the entry to the hay loft above and the concrete aisle lined with forty stalls below. We no longer keep the hay in here for fear of fire—it’s in a smaller barn several yards away—but the sweet smell of alfalfa lingers in the air from horses munching in their stalls.

Alexis is walking a bay mare up and down the stable aisle, letting her stretch her legs. I can’t recall a time when Alexis wasn’t hanging around the farm. First she was just the horse-crazy kid from down the road, and then eventually we let her start mucking stalls in exchange for the chance to exercise a few of the calmer horses.
 
Now she does pretty much everything. I don’t think she’s ever met a horse that intimidates her. Or a guy that does, either, for that matter. No matter how they try, she won’t give most of them the time of day, but they continue to try. She’s no longer the gawky kid; instead she’s become a slender, long-legged beauty with pale blue eyes and wheat-blonde hair. I’ve already had to scare away a few guys, and I imagine I’ll have to scare away a few more.

The horse tosses her head, skittering with nervous energy. They stop before us, and I gesture between the two girls.

“Angel, this is Alexis, one of our employees. Dennis is off today, but he’ll be in tomorrow. You’ll be reporting to him here in the barn.”

“Call me Lexi,” Alexis chirps, extending a hand to Angel. “And this gorgeous girl is Sable, or at least that’s what we call her around here.”

I can’t help but smiling, at least a little bit. I forgot Alexis decided that Alexis was too grown up and instead dubbed herself ‘Lexi.’ She might as well have decided to call herself Trouble. But in a good, cute, little-sister way.

Lexi tells us she was just about to shut up the barn for the evening; she’s done walking out all the horses, and since there is no turnout to do, she’s going home. She reminds Angel that there’s an alarm that monitors the temperature and the fans in the barn, and it will sound inside the main house if there’s a problem. Emergency numbers are listed by the phone, organized in the order in which she should call them.

Angel seems to take it all in, but she keeps darting worried glances in my direction. Lexi leaves, and I walk Angel back to the porch. We stand facing each other for a long, weighted moment, and part of me is praying she will say something to change what I’m about to do. When it’s obvious she isn’t going to, I cup both my hands behind her head, lean down and briefly touch my lips to her forehead, and then turn and walk away.

I can’t bring myself to utter the words that are lodged in my throat, but I know she feels them all the same.

The little sob she chokes out nearly shatters me and my step falters, but still she doesn’t call out to me and that’s all the confirmation I need.

Goodbye, Angel.

Thirty Five

Arion

The road blurs behind hot tears, but somehow I make it back to my apartment in one piece. Physically, anyway. Every stoplight was like an annoying devil on my shoulder asking me if I was really sure I didn’t want to turn around and be tortured a little more. After having her in my apartment for a week, the absence of her hits me the moment I walk through the door.
 

The Keurig I bought her sits abandoned on my counter, and I have an immense urge to shove it off and let it shatter into a million pieces. Somewhere in the grown-up part of my mind, I know that isn’t appropriate, and I haven’t forgotten how much I scared her the last time I rampaged around my apartment.

But she isn’t here to be frightened.
 

She isn’t here to be frightened because I let her go. But it isn’t like I could force her to stay. I’m not a little kid anymore, and I’ve learned if someone wants to go, there’s no stopping them. It’s been years since I thought about my mom. Like
really
thought about her. Most of the time, I try not to, but today has brought her back front and center.
I’m done
. Angel’s words pushed play on a memory I’d worked so hard to unrecord.

My mom stands in the long galley kitchen, her hand braced against the counter, and she shakes her head at my dad. She doesn’t know I’m hiding behind the staircase, watching.

“I’m sorry, Tucker, I just can’t do it anymore. I’m done.” She sounds tired, and to my five-year-old mind, I think someone should tell her she needs a nap. That’s what everyone tells me when I get tired or cranky.

Dad sounds tired, too, but his is more of an angry tired. “You don’t mean that, Joyce. Don’t be melodramatic.”

“Melodramatic?” Mom screeches in the same tone she uses when she says, ‘Axel Joseph Chadwell.’ Daddy must be in big trouble, I wonder if he broke one of his toys. “Finding out from the girls at the club that you’ve been sleeping around—again—and being upset is not melodramatic.”

I guess Daddy fell asleep in the recliner again or in his office. He does that a lot. Usually, Mommy says it is because he works all the time. But I guess this time she’s tired of him sleeping around the house, instead of in their bed.

“I’m going home for a few weeks, and then we’ll see. I need space. I told my mother to expect me in the morning.”

“That’s right, run home to Mommy. Why would I expect any different. Maybe if you could disconnect yourself from your mother half an inch, I wouldn’t be looking elsewhere.”

Grandma! I don’t understand the other things Mommy and Daddy are saying, but I understand enough to know we’re going to visit Grandma. We don’t usually do that until Christmas, but I can’t wait.
 
I hurry up the stairs to grab my little rolling backpack that I like to cart my trains around in. Once I’ve stuffed three t-shirts and my favorite pair of jeans inside, I start back into the hallway. I’m almost to the steps when I remember underwear. Mom’s ears will turn red if I don’t bring underwear. I grab two pair then drag my bag down the steps with my stuffed dog under my arm.
 

“I’m ready!” I proudly announce. “Let’s go see Grandma.”

Mommy’s hand flies to her mouth, and she’s crying as she kneels down in front of me. “I’m sorry, Axel, but you have to stay here.”

“But I want to go see Grandma.” I lower my lip out into a pout, looking between her and Daddy.

Daddy is still standing in the kitchen, and he looks as confused as I feel.

“I’m sorry, I just need some time to unwind, and I’ll come see you soon. Sometimes Mommies and Daddies just need a little space, but your dad needs your help around here with the horses, and you’ve got school soon.”

Dad tries to scoop me up in his arms, but I chase Mommy out the door. She shuts herself in her car, and I sob as I bang on the door, pleading for her to take me with her. But she doesn’t, and she doesn’t come back. Ever.

Apparently, to grownups, space is just another way of saying goodbye.

I shake off the memories, but the damage is done. If I stay here, the emptiness of my apartment is going to kill me. At least if I go down to the bar, I can drink myself stupid and try to forget. Chelsea will probably tell me told-you-so, but she’ll also be a welcome distraction that I desperately need.
 

The bar is quiet tonight, a typical Sunday with several college kids shirking homework in the corner, a couple at a table having dinner, and an old man nursing a beer and sneaking looks at Chelsea’s ass every time she turns away. As I make my way across toward my favorite barstool, the door opens, and a few more patrons spill in out of the warm, soggy air.

Chelsea takes one look at my face when I crawl onto the barstool, and her eyes immediately narrow to dagger-sharp slits. “Do I need to get my rusty spoon?”
 

I must look worse than I thought, but it still can’t be half as bad as I feel.
 

A semi-familiar looking blonde sidles over to the bar and leans down so her tits are hanging in my face. I think she’s Gwen or Monica or something like that, but I’m not really sure. The last time I saw her, she was screaming my name; I wasn’t screaming hers. “You look like you could use a friend.”

I’m honestly considering it. My chest aches, my heart hurts, and I just want the pain to go away. If I can bury myself in some dumb blonde for a few minutes, that’s a few minutes less that I will hurt. There’s a disconnect between my thoughts and my face, because I can’t even force my lips into a smile. If they won’t come up, I’m pretty sure my dick won’t either. My body knows who it wants, and it isn’t her.

Gail or Mona or whatever her name is lightly trails one of her nails down my arm, and I have the distinct mental image of a cat unsheathing her claws.

“Sorry, not tonight.” I turn my head away, watching nothing in particular but trying to make my dismissal clear.

The nail freezes against me, and for a moment I worry she’s going to skewer me with it. It might serve me right if she did. “Call me if you change your mind.”

Chelsea gestures toward a bottle of tequila. “You want me to pour you a shot?”

“Fuck that, just give me the damn bottle.” One shot is not going to be enough. Nothing will ever be enough. I’ve been down this road before, and I know it’s a long, lonely trip to the bottom of the well. The only way to keep from drowning in the tepid water of misery is to drink it a little at a time until eventually you feel like you’re going to burst, but you’re touching dry ground.
 

Without Angel, nothing makes sense and nothing matters. The good news is that I’ve done this dance before, and I know the steps. Work out until my body goes numb, then drink until my head goes numb, go home with a different girl each night and pretend I give a shit. Then I get to wake up alone and do it all again. Eventually, it will hurt a little less.
 

“You can’t do this again, Axel. I am not going to watch you throw everything away like last time.” She slides a glass of water toward me, and it slips along the smooth counter, sloshing a few drops on the shiny surface.

“Then don’t watch.”
 
This is my damn bar, and if I want to get piss-drunk, I’ll do it. I round the corner of the bar like a bull aiming for a red cloth, my eyes locked on the amber bottle of tequila.

Thirty Six

Angel

I’d like to tell myself that it was shock that kept me from begging Arion not to leave, but I’m pretty sure it was mostly pride.

It was only after he’d driven away, his truck carving angry gashes in the mud as he sped down the lane, that I realized I’ve taken him for granted. I never thought he’d give up on me. Arion was always the sure bet—the thing I could count on. No matter how bad things got, I knew he wanted me, and I wanted him. We just had to figure out the logistics, and I needed to know I could still trust him.

I think I may be mourning my loss of trust in him even more than the loss of him, because it’s easier to undo a goodbye than it is to undo a lack of trust.

But the way he kissed me without a word, it was very clearly a goodbye. I tried to hold in my sobs, and I almost managed it, but once the floodgates opened, they didn’t close for the rest of the night. Finally, sometime after three a.m., I fell into something that almost resembled sleep, only to be woken up at six by Molly bathing my face with kisses.