Casting Stones (Stones Duet #1) (21 page)

“A little. You?”

Slowly, he shakes his head from side to side as his eyes meet mine. “Nope. I just ate.”

My eyes widen in disbelief at his words. “Shane! Eww! I can’t believe you just said that! God, that’s so embarrassing!”

“Embarrassing? That’s not the word I would use to describe what we did.”

I close my eyes before burying them in the palm of my hands.

“Do you realize how sexy you are?”

I cross my legs immediately in response to his words. How can I be turned on again at the mere sound of his voice? I think Jenna might be right; I do have it bad for Shane.

The monster truck is parked alongside the sidewalk in a part of the city I don’t frequent often; it’s where the other half live. Several small steps lead up to the front door of the two-story Brownstone. It’s an exact replica of all the others that line the narrow street. My nerves are on edge when he shuts off the engine and comes around to open my door. I take his extended hand, hop down and follow him. The sexual tension between us is thick and heavy.

With my small hand engulfed in his huge one, we silently climb the steep stairs until we reach the door marked 9R. As soon as he drops my hand to reach into his pocket, I miss the contact. He pulls out a silver key wrapped in green rubber and unlocks the deadbolts, pushing the door wide open for me to enter his home.

I know what is going to happen. I know we are going to go beyond the point of no return. And I want to go there. I want to feel his body over mine. I want my legs to fall open and feel him slide in, becoming one with me. But, if truth be told, I have never been more terrified in my life and I’ve had more terrifying moments that one person should have. With my heart beating like a drum and my palms sweating profusely, I look around Shane’s small apartment and release a sigh of relief. Everything is neat and clean. The white walls are free of holes, there are no broken door knobs, and no tattered second-hand afghan tossed over the side of the couch to hide the ripped, dirty cushions.

“This is really nice,” I smile at him. I feel safe here. I feel safe with him.

“It should be for what I pay in rent,” he quips with a chuckle.

“You’re lucky to have found this place especially in this area. Most of the yuppies don’t leave. It’s like Hotel California.” I grin back thinking about the transiency of the people in my neighborhood.

“Yuppy? Who are you calling a ‘yuppy’?” Shane spins me around and smirks at me, his blue eyes light with humor.

“You are definitely ‘yuppy’ material.”

“Explain,” he demands and he closes the space between our bodies. The energy between us is tangible.

“First of all, did you see the cars outside?”

He rolls his baby blues at me.

“Secondly, you grew up in suburban Connecticut and you’re an assistant principal of a high school. All you need is the Volvo, a pair of Sperrys and a pretty little wife with a strand of pearls to complete the picture. Oh, don’t forget the ascot for your neck.” I try to fight the smile as I picture a scarf tied around his neck. My tongue darts out and slides across my lower lip.

“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?” He shakes his head and snickers.

“I’m working on it.”

Shane stares at me for a moment longer before asking if I’m hungry. He flicks on the light switch, illuminating a small kitchen area. I peek over his shoulder and watch as he opens two cabinets. He sighs deeply and closes the doors before opening the refrigerator.

I notice as he rummages through the fridge that everything is tidy; not a single dirty dish in the sink or crumbs on the counter. From a simple observation, I gather he likes order; he prefers things neat and clean. The more time I spend with him, the more I learn about this beautiful man, but the inexplicable contrast in his behavior earlier awakens a high level of inquisitiveness in me. It’s what I do; I study people and human behaviors. It’s why I spend every spare minute reading and analyzing case studies.

“What have you got to eat?” I ask as I pull out one of the small chairs and sit down.

“I have instant oatmeal, granola bars, or yogurt.” He turns around, grimaces and yawns loudly. “Sorry. I have to go grocery shopping.”

I shrug. “Oatmeal is fine.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure. I’m easy.”

He laughs as he grabs a small bowl, fills it with tap water and puts it in the microwave.

“If that’s for me, you don’t need to heat up the water.” I say nonchalantly, knowing what his response is going to be.

“You want cold oatmeal?” He raises his eyebrows, no doubt wondering if he heard me correctly.

“Not cold. Just lukewarm.” I smile sadly. For a moment, I’m a six-year-old eating a bowl of oatmeal for my dinner while my mother entertains a man in her bedroom. Since I was too little to use the stove and we didn’t have a microwave, I made do with what I had. Instant oatmeal and tap water. Sometimes it was cereal and water. It didn’t make a difference; it was something to eat.

“Are you sure?” The grin on his face matches the humor in his eyes.

I laugh and give him an exasperated look, “Yes, I’m sure.”

“If you say so.” He mixes the contents of the small bag with water and stirs it before offering it to me. “Here you go. One bowl of lukewarm oatmeal coming up.”

“Don’t judge! I was a poor kid.” I take an eager spoonful into my mouth and hum my delight. “Besides, I’m sure you didn’t always have fancy, gourmet meals in the military.” I take another bite and tease, “You guys probably fought like savages for the good stuff.”

His eyes become like lasers, pointing directly at me as his gorgeous face becomes hard as stone. “You don’t know anything about my time there. I did what I had to do.”

I struggle to swallow the food that now feels like cement. “Shane, I was just kidding.”

Within seconds, Shane is gone from my sight and I am left to eat my dinner alone. If I were smart, I would leave now. His constant mood swings lately are almost too much to handle. Perhaps I need to do some research on bipolar disorder or multiple personalities. I roll my eyes at my stupid thoughts and decide not to pry further. I suspect he’s probably having a bad week or something or the stresses of work are mounting.

After washing my bowl, I scroll through my phone while I wait for him to finish in the shower. The water seems to be running for quite some time. Glancing quickly at the clock on the microwave, I realize he’s been gone for nearly thirty minutes.

My phone rings, alerting me that Simon is calling. I answer immediately because he rarely ever calls; he hates talking on the phone. It must be important.

“Hey, Simon!”

“Where are you?” he practically yells into the phone.

“I’m out.” I’m slightly offended by his tone; I don’t need to explain my whereabouts to him or anyone else. “Why? What’s up?”

“I’m at your place and it’s fucking trashed.”

My back stiffens immediately as my legs swing around and find the floor. “What do you mean? Is my mother there?”

“No.”

If it were anyone else other than Jenna or Simon, I would ask how they got into the apartment, but they both have a key at David’s suggestion. My two best friends, each of them, probably have enough keys to look like a custodian. Every time I move, they get a new key.

“I’m on my way. Stay there.” I dash to the bathroom door and knock three times. No answer. I try the door knob, but it’s locked.
Shit!
I call Shane’s name several times before giving up. As much as I would love to wait for him, I can’t.

I call for a cab and wait at the corner of the street. As I stand there, I notice that I’m the only one at the intersection. In the neighborhoods where I grew up, street corners were occupied day and night.

After throwing money at the cab driver who tried to make small talk and kept looking at me in the rearview mirror, I jump out and run up the stairs. I find Simon sitting on the couch waiting for me. He looks awful. His hair is matted in some parts and wild in others. Rumpled clothes suggest that he’s been in the same ones for at least two days, if not more.

I eye him knowingly. “What were you doing here anyway? You look like shit.”

I begin the tedious task of picking up the strewn contents and putting them back where they belong. I release a deep sigh when I notice another hole has been added to the wall. “You could help me out, you know.” I can’t hide the annoyance in my voice.

“Remy.” Simon drops to his knees to help me pick up the shattered lamp. “I’m sorry.” My heart constricts at his simple words, but his empty apologies have long been exhausted; I don’t want to hear them anymore. This act of contrition is in vain.

“You need help.” I glare at him with ice in my eyes before I turn away and head into the kitchen to get a garbage bag. “Almost as much as
she
does.”

“I’m sorry I’m not the fucking golden child,” he yells defensively, rising to his full height. I notice immediately how thin and gaunt he’s become recently.

I cringe at the nickname. “Golden child? Screw you! Have you seen my life, Simon? You had a mother who loved you more than anything else and a father who still does!”

“Fuck this! I’m outta here!” The chair he just put in its upright position falls over as he rushes out the front door.

I grab the broom and sweep up the broken ceramic. I can’t help but think of myself as this lamp that’s held together by glue after being broken so many times before. I wonder how much glue it will take to piece the fixture together. Or is it finally beyond repair? After analyzing the damage, I throw the entire thing in the garbage before I’m satisfied that all the remnants have been cleaned up.

I ignore the ringing of my phone as I continue to restore items to where they belong. I don’t care that Shane texted relentlessly and has now resorted to calling. I don’t want to talk to him. The time for him to explain and apologize has long past. Again my phone rings until I decide to silence it with a quick slide of my finger, turning my phone off for the night.

Shane

I LIFT MY
head and allow the scalding water to rain down, pelting my face mercilessly. An exasperated sigh escapes, leaving me frustrated and wondering why the hell I snapped at her. Who have I become? This person isn’t me.

After drying off, I open the medicine cabinet and take the cap off the orange-colored bottle. I cup my shaky hand and take a quick drink of tap water, ensuring nothing will get lodged in my throat.
Get it together.
I make a beeline for my bedroom and throw on a pair of sweats. I know I’ve got some explaining to do and apologies to hand out. I owe Remy that much. I stare at myself in the mirror and for a second, I see myself back there. I feel the heat. I feel the weight. I see the fear in my eyes. I see the fear in his eyes.With slow deep breaths, I struggle to regain composure.
Boston. I’m in Boston. It’s over. I came home.

I call her name as I walk out of my room but get no response. The open living room and the kitchen are both empty so I check the spare room, but I still don’t find her. It occurs to me that she might have wanted to leave, but I would have expected her to wait for me to get out of the shower. I send a quick text message asking where she is. She doesn’t reply. I come up with every possible scenario just to avoid facing the truth.
You’re fucked up, Davis.

Over and over I send text message after text message followed by phone calls. I know her phone is on because it eventually goes to voicemail. I listen to the happy tone of her recorded voice and feel horribly for the way I treated her. I have to suppress the idea to drive to her house just to make sure she arrived safely. I don’t want to push her away like I did to Mia.

I fall into a deep state of unconsciousness as I wait for her to return my call until I’m startled away by a loud noise outside.

“Yes, sir,” he gurgled as I pulled him toward me, protecting his body from even more damage. I unstrapped his helmet and cradled his bloody head. I bit the inside of my lip to prevent my lips from quivering. I had to be strong for both of us.

“Now you listen to me, you are fine. I’m going to get your ass home to your wife. Okay! Do you fucking hear me?” I gritted my teeth and got in his face, praying that he would listen until help arrived.

“Yes, sir...yes, sir…tell my wife—” Vacant hazel eyes stared into mine as he fell silent, drawing his final breath.

I jolt upward and wipe the sweat dripping from my forehead; I run my hand along my bare chest and press my palm against my heart to keep it from exploding. The heavy pounding reverberates in my ears.

For the next several hours I wait for sleep to find me again, but it never does. Each time my eyes close, I’m back there. I have no regrets about going, but one thing is for sure, I will never go back.

After lacing up my sneakers and pulling a hooded sweatshirt on, I’m out the door. I needed to get away from the apartment walls which felt as if they were closing in on me, putting me back in solitary confinement. The streets of Boston are quiet, filled only with fellow runners or strangers walking their dogs. I bypass the train station and keep on the route that will lead me to her. When I finally reach my destination, I’m exhausted, but my anxiety is gone. I pull the front door open and see her immediately as she carries a large tray covered in breakfast food. I grab a mint as I usually do.