Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (4 page)

He doesn’t say anything, but the skin around his eyes crinkles up the tiniest bit — anyone else, I’d say they were fighting a grin. But it’s Nate. He’s probably picturing ways to chop up my body and dispose of the pieces where no one will ever find them.

I swallow hard.

“Oh, goodie. Another scintillating moment of silence,” I mutter, rolling my eyes to prove how cool and collected I am.
Psh
. “You can see yourself out,
Nathaniel
.” 

I use his full name just to goad him, knowing he detests the formality of it. Spinning around, I grab Boo off the couch and storm from the room before he can say another word.

Before he can see the angry tears glossing over my eyes.

Jackass.

I am
so
fracking done with Nathaniel Knox and his mind games.

He probably only dates bad girls.

Perfect. 

I’m bad at pretty much everything.

Phoebe West, giving herself a pep talk.

Okay, so, that’s a lie.

I’m not done.

I can’t be.

Where Nate is concerned, I don’t think I’ll ever be completely able to cut ties. Not unless I want to cut my heart from my chest, as well.

But I’m most certainly done dreaming about some kind of deluded happily-ever-after with him — a big white dress and him waiting at the end of the aisle, eyes tearing up with joy at just the sight of my beauty. A disheveled fixer-upper house we lovingly restore together, until each floorboard is imprinted with the strength of our relationship. A nursery painted a safe, gender-neutral yellow.

Phoebe, you lunatic, you are not the heroine of a Nicholas Sparks novel. 

After I hear the faint click of my front door closing as Nate leaves, I let Boo out the back for one last pee break onto the tiny patch of grass my real estate agent called a “hidden city gem” just so he could charge me five grand over the initial asking price. Staring up at the stars while Boo makes a show of sniffing every square millimeter of the property in his quest for the perfect spot, I have half a mind to pull out my cellphone and dial Parker. The rage fraying my nerve endings needs an outlet — screaming at my big brother for giving Nate my brownstone key might just do the trick.

My cell screen glows blue-bright in the darkness as I click it on and look at the time.

Midnight. The witching hour.

Fitting, since I was just visited by a demon in black leather and combat boots.

It’s barely dawn in Europe — Parker won’t bother to answer, this early. My best friend, Lila, is no doubt out on the town at some fabulous party or another — chances of sober conversation at this time on a Friday night are nil. My father’s away on yet another business trip — China or Japan, I think. He’s gone so often, it’s hard to keep his destinations straight.

I sigh deeply.

I’ve got a gorgeous house in Boston’s most desirable neighborhood.

I’ve got more money in my trust fund than I’ll ever know what to do with.

And I’ve got not one single person in my entire phone contact list that I can call, right now.

I wonder fleetingly if it
had
been an intruder tonight, instead of Nate, if I really had fallen, cracked open my head on a coffee table, and died of an improbable aneurism… how long would it take the people in my life to notice?

A day?

A week?

A month?

Could I just disappear one instant, like a star winking out of existence, without anyone close enough to realize I’d gone?

Poof! Phoebe West evaporates in a puff of stardust and smoke.

One less bright dot on the far-reaching edges of the universe. Already so far removed from everyone peering upward, it could take ages for anyone to recognize my absence.

I shiver in the damp April air, hugging my arms closer around me. It does nothing to warm the lonesome chill inside my chest.

Maybe I should call
him
. The devil incarnate.

Incar-Nate.

Dial him up — quite brave, though the safe separation of a phone line — and unleash all the sassy, intelligent retorts I thought of only after the door closed behind him, when they were of no use to me. Tell him he has no business butting into my life. That I don’t care how sexy he is, or that he makes me feel more alive than anyone on earth has ever managed to, or that just his presence in my space is nearly enough to make me combust.

(Okay, not that last part.)

It doesn’t matter — I couldn’t call him, even if I wanted to. I don’t have his number anymore.

Lila convinced me to delete it last spring, asserting it wasn’t remotely healthy to stare at someone’s name in your contact list, willing the phone to ring for years on end. She was probably right.

I climb the stairs, Boo at my heels, seeking the solace of my bed.

I don’t find it.

Instead, I toss and turn for hours, thinking about him. About hate. About lust. About love.

God, the love I have —
had!
—  for that man.

For years it burnt me up, broke me down. Images flash through my mind — I try to block them out, but the memories are too strong.

Nate, passing me a toothbrush after Parker put food coloring in my cereal and turned my teeth bright green.

Nate, knocking the schoolyard bully into the dirt after he called me a nasty name in second grade.

Nate, teaching me to ride a bike in our long, curving driveway, his arms strong and steady as he ran at my side.

Nate, patching my scraped palms and bleeding knees when I toppled onto asphalt.

Nate, making me burned mac ’n’ cheese on the stove when Parker was at soccer practice and Dad was busy working.

Nate, hugging me close after he found me sobbing on the back lawn by the maple tree, a dead bird in my hands.

Nate, holding my hand so tight I thought my fingers would break as we watched my mother’s casket lowered into the earth.

Goddammit! Now I’m crying like a loser at two in the morning, with only Boo to witness my humiliation.

I know there’s about a snowball’s chance in hell that I’m going to fall asleep at this point, so I climb out of bed and pad down the hall to the guest room. When I reach the closet I grab the case, flick open the clasps, and a second later, feel the utter relief of smooth wood beneath my hands.

My violin.

I don’t care that it’s late or that I’ll be tired in the morning. I position it just so beneath my chin, rotating my shoulder until I’ve found the playing posture I’ve been perfecting since I was five years old and my mother placed a string instrument in my tiny hands. The bow is light as air between my fingers as I lift it to slide across the strings. The mournful wail, melancholy and ethereal, vibrates through me from the tips of my fingers to the soles of my feet.

A mindless sense of peace settles over me as I find my rhythm, plucking out notes like my life depends on it.

I don’t use music. I’ve played this piece by heart for years.

Lux Aeterna.

Not a classic. By no means Mozart or Beethoven.

But I’m not playing for crowds or accolades. I’m playing for myself.

The bow moves faster and faster, my fingers gliding over the strings with such intensity I can’t think about anything except which note comes next. I play until Nate is pushed from my head, the melody of his touch replaced by crescendos and cadenzas. Until every word he spoke tonight — so intent, so electric — is forced from my memory.

The notes fly out, my fingers a blur of motion, and I close my eyes, wishing I could stop seeing him in my mind. The way he looked — all lithe grace and dark promise. And the way he looked at
me
— with anger, mostly, but those undeniable flashes of something foreign in his eyes couldn’t have been entirely my imagination.

Conflict.

Pianissimo.

Restraint.

Mezzo piano.

Lust.

Forte.

I strike the last note, breathless and exhausted from my efforts. My hands shake as I place the instrument back in its case. It’s the best I’ve played in ages, and I couldn’t care less. All I can think of is Nate. Of the fact that no amount of musical distraction can push him from my thoughts. And undeniably, of the lust in his eyes when they flickered down to my mouth for a fractured instant.

I saw it there, in the depths of his gaze, before he buried it away beneath layers of icy indifference. Just a flash, just a split second of clarity, but I saw it and I know what it meant.

On some level — and I’m not sure how deep that level is — he feels it, too. The magnetic pull between us.

Finally
he feels it, too. Even if he can’t admit it.

Part of me wants to spin in dizzy circles around the room, screaming to the heavens.

YES! NATE ISN’T TOTALLY UNAFFECTED BY ME! ALL HOPE IS NOT LOST! I MAY FINALLY ACHIEVE ORGASM AND AVOID DYING AN OLD, CELIBATE NUN!

The rest of me wants to climb back in bed, yank my Egyptian cotton sheets up over my face, and never come out.

NO! IT’S TOO LATE! HE WAITED TOO LONG! AFTER ALL THESE YEARS OF TORTURE, HE CAN’T JUST FLIP A SWITCH, THE BASTARD! NOT WHEN I’VE FINALLY DECIDED TO MOVE ON AND FORGET ABOUT HIM!

Sigh.

I walk slowly back to my room, feeling dazed and dejected. Boo is experiencing none of my split-personality disorder. He’s snoozing soundly at the end of my bed, nestled in a mountain of throw pillows. When I grab him and cuddle him close to my chest, his eyes flicker open to shoot a resentful glare in my direction and he promptly squirms away with a toss of his tiny head.

Christ, even my dog doesn’t want to sleep with me.

Maybe I should get a cat. Then my forever-alone status as a spinster will truly be complete.

I’d laugh if it weren’t so goddamned sad.

***

“…So, he basically broke into my house. Then he
yelled
at me. How messed up is that?”

Even two full weeks later, the memory of that night still burns through me like wildfire — singing my nerve endings, quickening my breath, sending my heart into a pounding, painful rhythm inside my chest. 

Striving for composure, I take a sip of my drink — a sinfully sweet tequila-based concoction the bartender at
Lolita
whipped up for me — and eye my best friend, Delilah “Lila” Sinclair, across the table. Strawberry-blonde head bowed, plush bottom lip trapped between her mega-white teeth, she’s totally concentrated on the cellphone in her hands. Not even attempting to listen to me.

“Apparently, he has Parker’s key to my place.” I forge on, pathetically determined to share my story with the girl who, as my best friend, is supposed to give a damn about this stuff. Or, you know, at the very least
pretend
to give a damn. “And he refused to give it back. Total jackass.”

“Mmm,” she murmurs distractedly. “Totally.”

“Lila?”

“Yeah?” A secret smile plays on her lips as her fingers tap out another text message.

“Did you hear me?”

Her eyes dart up to mine for a fraction of a second. “Nate came. Has Parker’s key. Total jackass.” She rolls her eyes like
I’m
the one being inconsiderate. “I’m listening, Phoebe. Jeeze.”

Before I’ve had time to respond, her eyes fall back to the screen and she’s typing again.

I fight the urge to toss my drink at her.

Lila’s been my best friend since… forever. I don’t even remember meeting her. I just know she’s been there through it all — every bad hair day and broken heart, every embarrassing moment and important milestone. Twenty odd years, three graduations (four, if you count pre-school), countless petty fights, so many shared secrets it’s a wonder we still have anything to talk about… and here we are. Still friends, after all this time. Even if she does drive me crazy on a regular basis. Like right now, when she’s blatantly tuning out every word of the story she begged to hear only minutes ago.

I take another sip and try again. “Anyway, I told him to get the hell out of my house.”

She doesn’t respond. I watch her fingers move again.

Tap, tap, tap.

Frustration stirs to life in my veins. “And then…” I drop my voice to a low, sultry whisper and lean across the table. “I pulled my dress up over my head, told him I was a virgin, and asked him to
teach me
like Lexi did to Sloan back in the good old
Grey’s Anatomy
days, before Shonda went completely off the rails and killed all my favorite characters.”

“Mmm.”

My voice goes so breathy it could make a porn star blush. “So, he threw me down on the floor and ravaged me within an inch of my life.”

“Mhm.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“That’s nice, Phoebe.”

“Now, I’m pregnant with his love child. If it’s a girl, I’m thinking we’ll name her Lila.” I tilt my head in contemplation. “Or something truly embarrassing, like
Chrysanthemum
. Or
Lemon
. Or maybe
Butterfly.
A healthy amount of humiliation is good for a kid growing up in this Everyone-Gets-A-Trophy generation, don’t you think?”

She finally looks up at me, features twisting in confusion. “Wait,
what
?”

“Never mind.” I pop open my clutch, grab a few bills, and lay them down on the tabletop. “I’m tired, Lila. Think I’m going to call it a night.”

“But we just got here!” Her voice is petulant and her big brown eyes are glossy, pleading. I recognize it instantly — her famous puppy-dog look. It’s broken the resolve of more men than I could ever count. “Don’t go. I want to hear about Knox.”