Breakable (11 page)

Melody looked up at the stars. ‘Yeah, well. Evan was always basically a Dad clone, even when we were little. They get their way. Every time.’ She paused, sighing, and I wanted to pull my fingers through her hair and loosen her braid. Guide her mouth to mine and kiss her and make her forget the condescending guy who treated her like crap. ‘My mom is like this really strong woman to everyone but Daddy,’ she said then. ‘She says that’s what marriage is supposed to be. It’s give and take, but if there’s a real disagreement, the husband makes the decision.’

I thought about my parents and their relationship. My dad had never been expressive, but he’d been completely devoted to my mother. She could have asked for anything and he’d have given it to her, or tried to.
Whatever you want, Rose
. How many times in thirteen and a half years had I heard that?

He knows I’ll never ask him for anything that would hurt him, because I love him
, Mom told me once.
I trust him the same way, because I know he loves me, too
.

‘Or the older brother?’ I asked Melody, who lay back beside me.

‘Or the older brother,’ she conceded. ‘Or the dad.’

I could see how Clark Richards fitted into this picture more clearly than I had before. ‘In other words, the man.’

She shrugged, watching me. ‘I guess.’

I frowned and peered at her. My mother was the most giving person I’d ever known, but she wouldn’t have tolerated someone making decisions for her, just because he was her husband. Or boyfriend. ‘That doesn’t seem right to me.’

She smiled. ‘Maybe not. But it doesn’t matter now. I don’t have to be anyone’s princess if I don’t want to. You can ask my mom – I’m definitely a fire-breathing dragon if I don’t get something I want.’

She didn’t even see it. She was her boyfriend’s captive princess. She would never be the dragon or the hero in his story. Those roles were already filled.

As expected, Jacqueline emailed and requested extra help with catching up. She thanked me for translating Dr Heller’s instructions, which could be unintelligible. His grad students could follow him, but he often lost a few of the undergrads. That’s why he had me.

I corrected her assumption that I was an economics major, attached several of the worksheets I’d created for
the sessions she couldn’t attend, and ended with asking how her orchestra students had done at regionals. Then I added:
btw, your ex is obviously a moron
, and pressed
send
.

What the
hell
did I mean by doing that? It was beyond out of line to say that about any student – in an
email
, no less –
to another student
. Regardless if it was true.

I breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t refer to that impropriety in her reply, though she seemed to believe that helping her was a nuisance for me. I wanted to convince her of the wrongness of that impression. It had been a long time since I felt the sort of breath-stalling anticipation I experienced waiting for her name to appear in my inbox or the sight of her in class. She was the opposite of a nuisance, infiltrating my dreams and stealing into my waking desires.

She told me about her two freshmen students, who’d each cornered her privately to ask which one was her favourite. I laughed out loud at her answer to both of them –
You are, of course
– and her question to me –
Was that wrong??

When I returned the worksheets, pointing out her minor mistakes, I confessed that a bass-playing college girl would have rendered me speechless at fourteen. I closed my eyes and imagined her as she was now, alongside the quiet disaster I’d been at fourteen, needing someone to just
see me
. I’d have fallen for her immediately, and hard.

And in case you’re wondering – yes, you’re my favourite
, I added to the end of that message.

Totally inappropriate flirting, but I didn’t care. I wanted
Landon to win her over, so that when she found out who I was, she would forgive me for being part of that night.

This was doomed. But I couldn’t stop now if I tried.

Friday afternoon shifts were often monotonous as hell – it had been ten minutes since we’d even had a customer. There were only two of us working the counter. If Gwen had been there, I would have welcomed hearing anecdotes about her kid’s teething or crawling or colic for the hundredth time just to break the boredom. I was working with Eve, though, who was texting nonstop, setting up weekend plans and leaving me far too much time to ruminate over my Jacqueline Wallace dilemma.

Absorbed in conversation, two girls strolled up to the empty counter. I recognized one of them as the redhead who’d come in with Jacqueline on Monday, then hugged her and sprinted away before they’d reached the front of the line.

From their Greek-lettered T-shirts, I deduced these two were sorority girls. In spite of her attendance at that party and her frat boyfriend, I hadn’t thought that pertained to Jacqueline – but it was entirely possible that she was in a sorority. Not like I hung out with that crowd enough to know who was or wasn’t part of it. Or care.

Until now.

Eve stepped up to the counter while I cleaned the decaf canister, inadvertently eavesdropping and unable to stop once I heard the subject of their conversation.

‘… if Kennedy wasn’t such a dickhole.’

‘Your order?’ Eve intoned, without a hint of affability.

‘He’s not totally horrible – I mean, at least he broke up with her first,’ the dark-haired girl countered before answering Eve. ‘Two venti skinny iced green tea lemonades.’

My coworker punched the register buttons and gave their total. With 2G gauges in her earlobes and more piercings and tattoos than I’d seen on a girl in years, Eve wasn’t a fan of Greeks. I’m not sure if she had a reason. If so, she’d not shared it with me. I figured we were cool because she assumed, as most people did, that my own visible piercing and tats meant I was equally antisocial. I suppose that much was true … I just happened to have a weakness for one particular socially active girl.

I wondered what Eve might do if some hunky frat boy took a liking to her and got too close.

She’d likely stab him with a brow barbell first and ask questions later.

‘I beg to differ,’ the redhead said. ‘He’s a total fucking ass. I saw it often enough, even if she didn’t. He took the
high road
because in his mind breaking up with her before fucking around excused him from all responsibility for breaking her
heart
. They were together for nearly three years, Maggie. I can’t even comprehend being with someone that long.’

Maggie sighed. ‘Seriously. I’ve been with Will for three weeks, and if he wasn’t hung like a –’

‘Your
card
,’ Eve interjected as if repulsed, and I escaped that too-clear mental picture of
Will
, whoever he was. Thank Christ.

‘– I’d be bored out of my mind. I mean, he’s sweeter than chocolate, but ugh, when he starts talking. Zzzz.’

Jacqueline’s friend laughed. ‘God, you’re such a bitch.’

I pulled the lemonade from the fridge while Eve pumped syrup into a shaker.

‘Yeah, yeah. Nice girls finish
never
. Speaking of, what are we going to do about Jacqueline?’

Her friend sighed. ‘Hmm. Well, she left the party early last week, so that was a major fail – but that was probably because Kennedy was douchebagging it up with Harper right in front of her. Harper’s been after him since last spring – I’m sure she flaunted the shit out of bagging him. God. I never should have taken J to that fucking party …’

Eve slid their drinks across the counter, rolling her eyes – which went unnoticed. Poking straws through the lids, they turned to go, caught up in plotting.

‘We should dress her like
dessert
and take her somewhere Kennedy won’t be, so she can get her groove back.’

When the redhead suggested a club known for blasting crap music – overplayed on every top-40 station in existence – I knew I’d reached a new level of personal idiocy, because I was going to go. I had to see her on neutral ground, and I was willing to endure almost anything to make that happen. Even pop music.

I’d barely looked at her in class today, trying to fight the attraction I’d been feeling weeks before I’d become the guy who prevented her from being raped in a parking lot. I’d been her saviour that night, yes, but also I bore witness to
the humiliation she must still feel. I was eternally linked to that night – an inevitable reminder of it.

That was clearly how she thought of me – as evidenced by the wide-eyed shock on her flushed face when I asked if she was ready to order on Monday. Evidenced in her quick, ‘I’m fine,’ when I asked if she was okay. Evidenced in the way she jerked her hand back when I handed her the card and my finger grazed hers.

But then she looked back at me in class on Wednesday, and the hope I knew I should discourage reignited. It was a dull glow in the pit of my heart – that somehow this girl was meant to be mine. That I was meant to be hers.

Avoidance would have been the smart thing, but where she was concerned, all logical thought was useless. I was full of irrational desires to be what I could never be again, to have what I could never have.

I wanted to be whole.

Watching from a distance as her friends pressed drinks into her hand and encouraged her to dance with whatever guy popped up to ask, I suspected she’d not told them about that night. They’d brought her here and pushed her into the arms of new guys to get over her breakup, not to recover from an assault. Smiling and performing silly dance moves, they coaxed smiles from her, and I was glad to see that happiness on her face, no matter what put it there.

I knew I should leave her alone. She was a lure I couldn’t resist, though she had no way to know it. No way to know I’d watched her relationship crumble from a safe distance.
No way to know that I was as attracted to the sense of humour and intelligence she revealed in our email exchanges as I was to those captivating movements her fingers made when her mind was on music and not what was going on around her.

Her ex had chided her once for her inattention to some gibberish he was spouting, and I wanted to throat-punch him. What a fucking idiot he was, to have had her so long and somehow to have never
seen
her.

I finished my beer and vacated my seat at the bar, torn. I didn’t want to betray Charles’s faith in me. This wasn’t my scene, so there was no denying the knowledge that I was there for
her
, in deliberate disregard of the fact that she was my student. I would keep to the edge of the club and head straight out the door. Or I would just say hello and leave.

I walked up behind her, noting that she was taller in her heeled boots. Even so, I towered over her. Stroking a finger over the soft skin of her arm, I knew that all pretence of fighting this attraction was suspended, at least for these few moments. I vaguely noted her friends, both facing me, but couldn’t tear my eyes from her bare shoulder long enough to acknowledge them.

Jacqueline turned, and my eyes were drawn straight to the plunging neckline of her top. Holy. Hell. I snapped my gaze back to her face.

Brows raised at my quick but blatant inspection of her chest, she seemed to hold her breath, and I let myself be caught by her mesmeric gaze. I wanted her trust. I didn’t
deserve it, but I wanted it. This was no time to be sidetracked by
dessert
.

She’d yet to release the intake of breath, while I recalled our engaging email exchanges – her comical admission of friends who bartered the use of her pick-up for beer, and the way she’d talked about her students – boys who must have been crushing out of their minds during every music lesson. I couldn’t stop the stupid smile stealing across my face, but I wasn’t the one who’d shared those exchanges with her.

Way to not be creepy, dumbass
.

I leaned in, intending to take a moment to compose myself as well as avoid yelling the
Hello
I meant to say before leaving. Instead of expressing an innocent greeting, I found myself drowning in her scent – the subtle honeysuckle that had etched itself on to my olfactory sensors that rainy day weeks ago.
So sweet
. My body tightened, and with enormous effort, I murmured into her ear, ‘Dance with me?’

I pulled away, watching her. She didn’t move until her friend poked a finger in her back and gave her a firm nudge in my direction. She reached her hand forward as I reached to take it, and I escorted her to the dance floor, telling myself,
Just one dance. Just one
.

Yeah. That didn’t happen, either.

The music of that first song was loud, but slow. As long as I’d been watching her, she’d refused invitations to dance every slow song. She’d flinched from the touch of every guy, almost inconspicuously, but none of them seemed to notice. Maybe alcohol had dulled their senses. More likely,
they simply didn’t sense her anxiety at all, and wouldn’t have known the grounds for it if they had. They didn’t have my knowledge of what she’d experienced. In addition, years of martial arts had trained me to discern the barest of physical reactions. Hers were clear to me, as were their origins.

I hated the fear that asshole had instilled in her, and I wanted to dispel it.

As we danced, I took both of her hands, gently, and brought them together behind her back. Her breasts brushed my chest and it took every sliver of willpower to keep from crushing her closer. She moved perfectly with me, closing her eyes. Earning that fragment of trust from her only made me want more.

She swayed, probably more affected by the cheap tequila in the half dozen margaritas her friends had furnished than being in the circle of my arms. When I released her hands to hold her body more firmly, she grabbed on to my arms like she was falling. Inching upward, those hands tracked a slow path to link behind my neck, and I waited for her eyes to flicker open. Her chin lifted, but her eyes remained shut until she was fully pressed against me – and then they flashed open, and she stared up at me.