Crushed (25 page)

Because I needed to talk about it.

Wanted
to talk about it.

With her.

I tell her about how Tim Patterson had opened the door and shown me into his office because Devon had told him there was something I needed to discuss.

I told her how I’d blurted it out like a fucking moron. No preamble. No lead-up.

Just a blunt
Twenty-five years ago you had an affair with my mother.

“He put the pieces together?” Chloe asks, taking her hand off mine to retrieve her beer. I miss the contact.

“It took a few seconds,” I say, fiddling with the label of my beer.

What are you trying to tell me, son?

Just that. I am your
son
.

Chloe whistles. “Did he lose his shit?”

I take a sip of beer and lean my head back. “No. I mean, he looked sort of like someone had kicked him in the balls. Then he looked like he might throw up. But to his credit, he didn’t doubt it. Didn’t demand a paternity test or kick me out.”

“Well, yeah,” Chloe says. “Because he’s a good guy, and because this is not a made-for-TV movie.”

I turn my head to look at her. “Feels that way sometimes though, doesn’t it? Like this is a terrible movie? This entire summer—”

“Has been unreal,” she agrees. “But what happened next? Did you guys talk? Hug? Did you ask him to go play catch in the park or take you to a baseball game?”

“Yes. And then I called him Dad, and he gave me my first beer and told me what a condom was for, and then we took a bunch of selfies and made a father-son scrapbook.”

Chloe laughs, and the sound is nice. Right. Of course she was the right person to tell. “Seriously, though. Where do you guys stand?”

I shrug. “We’re . . . he says it’s my call. He told Mariana. She was shocked, obviously, but then she hugged me.
Hugged
me, Chloe. Her husband had a kid with another woman, and she hugged me.”

“I
told
you they were good people.”

“Yeah. They are.”

“So then what?”

I shrug. “Then Devon came downstairs. We all had dinner, and it was awkward but nice, you know? They asked a million questions.”

“And I bet you were
super
forthcoming,” she says sarcastically.

I’m silent for a few minutes, and she props her elbow on the back of the couch, resting her head as she watches me. “What happens now?”

I sit up, leaning forward, holding my beer with both hands and staring at the ground. “I don’t know. In a way, it was anticlimactic, you know? Like this has been building up for nearly a year, and now it’s out there, and the ball’s in my court—”

“Says the tennis pro.”

I’m used to her interruptions, so I keep going. “I told them that I didn’t want to disrupt their family, and Mariana told me I
was
family now. Just like that. I’m part of their family. It’s not supposed to work that way.”

She puts a hand on my back. “Does it feel good?”

I roll my shoulders. “It’s weird. Like, I have two sets of parents now, and yet I also don’t really have any.”

“You haven’t talked to your mom? Your . . . Mike, Sr.?”

I grunt. “I’ll call them. Soon.”

She nods. Takes a sip of beer. Belatedly I remember that she doesn’t even like beer.

“You don’t have to drink that,” I say gruffly.

She shrugs. “It’s fine.”

And then we’re just . . . quiet.

“Thanks for telling me,” she says finally.

“Yeah, well. I figure I kind of owe you.”

She tilts her head in question.

“Devon told me. That it was you who told him to reconsider.”

She holds up a finger. “Actually, what I told him was to stop being a douche.”

“Well, whatever,” I mutter. “I just . . . thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

There’s no smugness in her tone, no condescension or agenda.

“It’s so easy with you,” I hear myself say.

She laughs. “You sound irritated.”

“I
am
irritated. You’re just good, Chloe. It’s annoying.”

She blows me a kiss, then her expression grows a little serious. “Hey, while I’m on your good side, there’s something I want to say, too.”

“Shoot.”

“I’m sorry about the other day. And about the Fourth of July.”

“Hey, don’t—”

“No, let me finish.” She holds up a hand.

“I’ve been thinking about it, and if roles were reversed, and it was a guy looking to use a girl for sex, it would be so gross.”

I laugh. “Trust me, Chloe. I can handle it.”

She kicks at me, not all that gently. “You shouldn’t have to. You’re not a piece of meat.”

“Says the girl who calls me Beefcake?”

Her eyes shadow. “I won’t anymore.”

“Hey!” I say, sitting up straight. “Would you stop? I take back what I said about things being easy with you; you’re acting weird and girly.”

She takes a sip of her beer and studies me. “Okay. Fine. Truce? We go back to the way we were before. I still call you Beefcake, but not one that I want a piece of.”

“Does this mean I’m your personal trainer again?”

“Hell, no. I’m paying a shit load of money for a fancy gym to have a bald guy with a Russian accent whip my butt.”

“I see. I’ve been replaced.”

“Totally. But look on the bright side: Our delightfully sweaty time together was going to come to an end anyway. I leave in couple weeks for school.”

I nod. The thought of a Chloe-less life depresses me more than it should.

She sets her beer on the table and stands. “All right. Drive me home, Jeeves. I want to see if Kristin’s gone snooping through my latest wardrobe additions.”

I set my own beer aside and stand, reaching for my coat. “You know, I can’t say that Kristin and I are on the same page very often, but I’m with her in that you don’t exactly seem like a mall rat.”

“I’m not. At all. But I can’t keep wearing the same ugly shit from my senior year of high school that no longer fits.”

“Usually when girls say their high school stuff doesn’t fit, it’s a bad thing,” I say, grabbing both bottles by their necks and taking them into the kitchen. I’m not a total slob. “You sound happy about it.”

She stops by my front door and turns to face me, her voice happy. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” I say. I set the bottles on the counter, then move toward her as I shrug into my coat.

She bounces on her toes twice, her eyes all glittery. “I’ve lost two sizes. Two.” She holds up two fingers in a V sign.

“Yeah?”

She nods happily.

“Well. Good for you.”

Her smile slips a little and she looks at me. “You don’t sound all that happy for me. You’re the one that started me on this.”

“Yeah, but not to get you down to a certain size.” My voice sounds rougher than I mean it to, and she crosses her arms across her chest defensively.

“I’m not being unhealthy about it. I’m eating right, and exercising the recommended amount, and—”

“Hey, hey,” I say, moving toward her, feeling a little panicked. “I know, Chloe. And I am happy for you. I’m sure you look great underneath that dreadful tarp you’re wearing.”

She takes a little breath. “Why do I sense a
but
coming?”

“No
but
.” I smile. “Just . . . don’t change, K?”

She rolls her eyes, and I move closer. “I’m serious. Stay just the way you are. Don’t change for anyone.”

What I’m really saying is
don’t change for Devon Patterson,
and when she looks away, I know she knows what I mean.

I should stop there. I’ve already said too much. But then my hand lifts, and I’m touching her hair. Her wild, beautiful hair. “That other night at the bar, when you had this all flat and boring . . .”

“Um, you mean shiny and straight,” she says, her voice testy.

“I hated it.” My voice is hoarse. “I like it like this.”

Her eyes search my face, and there’s so much confusion in them. I know the feeling. I’m confused, too.

And somewhere from the vicinity of my chest, the truth sneaks up on me. I know what I really mean is
I like
you
like this. I like you so much more than I should.

“Okay,” she says, her voice not quite a whisper, not exactly steady, either. “I look crappy with my hair straightened. Got it.”

“Good,” I say softly.

I should let go of her hair. I
really
should let go of her hair. But instead, my hand moves in the wrong direction, moving closer to her scalp until my hand is cupping her head.

I don’t know if I pull or if she leans, but now we’re chest to chest. Her breath is hot and fast against my chest, and I’m not certain my own breath is all that steady.

She tilts her head up.

Don’t do this, Michael.

But I do it anyway.

My head tilts down.

My mouth finds hers.

And I kiss Chloe.

Chapter 28

Chloe

Michael’s mouth is perfect.

Why
does it have to be perfect?

We just finally got back on track. This kiss will ruin everything all over again.

But, oh, what a way to ruin it.

The kiss is tentative at first. Not like the fake-pretend one. Not like the accidental one on the Fourth of July.

This kiss might be a mistake, but it’s an on-purpose mistake.

My eyes flutter closed as his mouth sips at mine in soft, open-mouth caresses. And when his tongue swipes my bottom lip, I open. I let him in.

His hand is still tangled in my hair and the other moves to my hip, his fingers digging in, while my own hands wind around his back and do some grasping of their own.

He moves his head, deepening the kiss, and I press closer, my tongue sliding against his in blatant invitation.

More.

My hands slide up, under the neck of his leather jacket—which is too damn hot for summer, but also damn sexy—and I try to push it off his shoulders. He untangles from me long enough to lose the coat, and then he’s on me again, his mouth harder this time as he slams me back against the wall.

“Yes,” I gasp, tilting my head back and giving him access to my neck.
“Yes.”

His mouth moves down my throat, his hands sliding up under the hem of my shirt to palm my back before sliding back down over my hips, butt, as he lifts me.

I am not a small girl, but he makes me feel tiny as he pins me to the wall, lifting my legs until they’re around his waist, his erection hard against my stomach as his mouth reclaims mine.

I hold his head, reveling that for this moment—this one perfect moment—Michael St. Claire is mine.

When we break to breathe, he rests his forehead against mine, his brown eyes locking on mine.

“Please don’t stop,” I whisper. Beg.

He kisses my nose. My cheeks. My mouth. “Not even if I wanted to.”

Then he spins me around, my arms latched on his neck as he moves in a few steps to that chronically unmade bed. When we’re beside it, he lets me slide down his body, until my feet hit the ground, his hands still resting on my waist.

Feeling brave, I lift my hands over his head.

Slowly, his eyes on mine, he reaches for the hem of my shirt before tugging it slowly upward. And then it’s up and off, and on the floor, and I’m standing in only my bra.

Only then do his eyes drift downward, and the way they darken to smoke makes my nipples pucker beneath my polka-dot demi bra.

His eyes drift back up to mine. “Better even than my fantasies.”

My mouth goes dry. “You had fantasies about this?”

He bends his knees so we’re eye level, then grabs my lower lip with his teeth and nips before he growls. “You have no fucking idea.”

Then his hands are on me, caressing me through the fabric of my bra before sliding around and undoing the clasp before I even know what’s happening.

“Done that before?” I ask drolly.

Then his hands slide around to cover me, his palms hot against my nipples, and I don’t think about anything at all.

He stops only long enough to ease me back until I’m sitting on the bed, then lying, staring up at him.

His hands go for the bottom of his own shirt.

“Wait!” I sit back up quickly, loving the way his eyes glaze over when my boobs bounce.

My hands bat his out of the way and I stand back up. “I’ve been waiting a long-ass time to see your abs, Beefcake.
I
get to do this.”

His eyes crinkle a little and he lifts his arms, mimicking my motion just minutes before. I slowly inch his T-shirt up, revealing inch by firm, chiseled inch. Even on my toes, I can’t quite reach, and he finishes the job, tossing it aside so we’re standing chest to chest.

Bare chest to bare chest.

I breathe, my hands resting light against him. “Beefcake. You’ve earned your name.”

He smiles down at me. “How do I compare to
your
fantasies?”

“How do you know I have them?”

He lifts an eyebrow.

I stand and press a soft kiss to his mouth. “Disappointing. So disappointing. In fact, I think I should leave. Find someone with actual muscles.”

He growls and then I’m on my back again, on the bed, laughing, and he’s laughing, too.

And then he’s on top of me, his mouth on mine, and there’s no more laughing.

Just kissing.

Really hot, tongue-tangling kissing.

I’m not sure at what point I lose my pants, nor at what point he loses his, but I never seem to get to that point of awkward dread when someone sees me naked. And when his hands move from my breasts, and along my sides, until his fingers hook into the side of my panties to tug downward, I realize why: I am meant to be naked with this guy.

I’ve always been meant to.

When he lifts a questioning gaze to mine, I lift my hips so that he can move the bikini panties down and off, and he does. Slowly. Taking in every inch of my legs, and I let him.

When they clear my feet, he tosses them aside, his own boxers quickly joining them on the ground.

He kisses his way back up then. Starting with my ankles.

Up along my calves, lingering on my inner knee. Painting the inside of my thighs with his tongue.

He moves up, tastes me, carnally, unapologetically. My fingers tangle in his hair, and I let him lick, because, um,
obviously
.