Destroy Me (Crystal Gulf Book 1) (7 page)

I don’t mean to, but the laugh comes out anyway. I cover my mouth as he continues to impale me with his heat-filled gaze. The longer he glares at me the harder I laugh. He’s probably used to women feeding his ego. Not proving it wrong. “Please don’t. I’m renting this couch.”

His eye twitches and his right hand reaches over to grab my knee poking out from under my robe. “Dylan gave me my first beer. He stole it from his grandpa’s cooler in the garage. Dylan introduced me to my first girl. He gave me my first toke, my first drop, my first shot. Did he force me to do any of it? No. But he showed me how.”

I move my leg out from under his warm palm. “Not my Dylan.”

“Your Dylan and my Dylan are unfortunately the same Dylan, babe. If it makes you feel better, he was only trying to help me. He wanted to give us an escape. Drinks, girls, and drugs did that. They still do. I’m not trying to be disgusting, Harley. I’m just trying to fucking escape.”

I look at him, surprised by the pain in his words. My smile fades. He stops staring at my bare knee and looks into my eyes. “From what?” I ask quietly.

He leans his head on the back of the couch with his eyes closed. “Dylan never told you anything about us.”

It isn’t a question. I try to think about what Dylan informed me of his past but it isn’t much. He seemed to focus more on who he didn’t want to be, not why he had been there. “Just that you guys grew up together and things weren’t easy.”

He shakes his head, a small, sad smile lifting his lips. “Did he think he could keep lying to you forever?”

“Apparently.” I have this intense biting need to read his letter now. Why was I so impulsive? My emotions ordered a response so I gave one. Sometimes the fear of not reacting scares me more than giving the wrong reaction. And yet I’m always left with regret.

“Can I ask you something?” he implores quietly, eyes still closed.

I lean my head on my arm and watch him. His sideburns travel down his temple and stop abruptly, curling at the ends. His long dark lashes hang there, catching the light from the outside lamp so I can see each individual hair. I keep going, following the bridge of his nose down to his full mouth. He didn’t shave today. Little dark hairs are sprouting above his top lip and under his bottom. His full lips look like he dried them with his breath. They’re not dry, just in need of a flick of his tongue. For some inane reason I imagine sliding my tongue over them, moistening them enough to make them glisten. I don’t realize I’m fanning myself with my robe again until the cool air brushes against my chest.

Such a shame. Such a damn shame …

“Yes,” I finally answer, continuing my assessment. Little brown hairs continue to pop out on his chin and stop at the top of his throat. I trace the silhouette of his throat, over his Adam’s apple, and down to the top of his chest. If I close my own eyes, I could keep going. I know what’s under his shirt. I saw his body when I went over to his place. I just hadn’t been as observant as I’m being now. I sigh and sit back. Am I so lonely even Bach is turning me on?

“How can you love him when everything out of his mouth was a lie?”

I watch him clasp his hands on his lap and stretch out his legs. His chest rises and falls. The blue, black, and white checkered pattern on his shirt hypnotizes me momentarily. “Because he trusted me,” I finally answer.

He opens his eyes and unleashes them on me. “We don’t trust anyone.”

“Exactly,” I answer quietly, reaching over to fix the fourth button on his shirt. He watches my fingers curiously. “He trusted me, which in turn made me trust him. Trust’s a big thing for me. I want to know why he bothered. Why go through all of that if he didn’t mean any of it?”

“Here,” he offers, gently grasping my hand in his large, strong ones. Using my fingers, he pushes the button through the hole. Then he puts his hands back on his lap, his pale green eyes focusing on mine as my hands linger awkwardly over his chest. I quickly pull them back. “To be honest I don’t know what he meant, but I do know he cared about you.”

I don’t doubt that Dylan cared about me. I could see the heartbreak in his eyes, but it doesn’t comfort me. It makes what he did even worse. “I can’t talk about him anymore. I get mad and then sad. Back and forth. It’s giving me a headache and a stomachache.”

“You know what you need?” He sits up. “A drink. You got anything to drink in this square ass apartment?”

“I don’t drink.”

“That isn’t what I asked. I expected that from you. I was referring to your roommate. She drink?”

“Go look. I don’t know.”

Just as he gets up the doorbell rings. I start to get up to answer but he walks over before I can. I glare at him as he opens my door like he lives here.

“Yo, Bach!”

Bach grins at the pizza guy. “What’s up? You bring the breadsticks?”

“Yeah, and there’s a little something extra in there for you. Thanks for the other night.” The pizza guy smiles so wide I almost gag. “My girl had a lot of fun.”

Bach doesn’t notice. He’s too busy smelling the pizza box like it’s a pair of panties. “Yeah, my pleasure. How much is it?”

“On the house. I th—”

“Cool.” He slams the door in his face before the poor guy can offer him his car or worse, his manhood. “Let’s grub, girl.” He produces the pizza proudly. After he sets it down on the coffee table, he heads for the kitchen.

I follow, curious. “What did you do for him the other night?”

“I can’t remember.” He searches the cabinets, finding nothing. “Fucking Squares.” Next he tries the freezer and then the fridge. “Bingo. Vodka. And look at this. A bottle of lemon soda.”

I don’t tell him it’s flat. It’s been in there since last month. I lean around him to get some paper plates from the side of the fridge. “Grab the ranch dressing too please.”

“Yes, Harley. Would you like me to carry you back to the couch as well?”

I smirk. “No, but thanks for offering. I’ll let you know if I ever require your services.”

“Dweeb,” he mumbles, reaching into the fridge for the dressing.

Juggling the vodka, soda, two glasses, and the dressing, he makes his way back to the living room and we resume our spots on the couch. I turn the TV on because that way we won’t be forced to talk. Talking to Bach seems dangerous. He has answers to everything, but I refuse to keep up. I slide the pizza box closer to me as he fixes two drinks. When I open it there’s a bag of cash on top. I snatch it before Bach can see it and open it.

I count five twenties and five tens. One hundred and fifty dollars for something Bach can’t even remember doing? At the bottom of the bag is another smaller baggie with two orange pills. “What’s this?” I hold one up.

He raises his eyebrows, eying the cash in my lap and the pill in my hand. “E. You want to take it together?” He gives me a sexy grin. “I can show you my robe trick.”

I examine it closely, turning it this way and that. “What’s it feel like?”

His grin explodes and he reaches over and snatches the pill out of my hand. “I was kidding, Square. You’re not taking this shit. Give me the other one.”

I quickly move it out of his reach. “Why not?” He puts one knee on the couch and leans toward me, grabbing for my arm. Using his body weight he pins my other arm down and grabs the one with the pill in it. For some reason I can’t stop laughing as he keeps missing the pill.

He laughs a little too, smiling as he misses yet again. “Give it to me, Harley. This shit can kill you.”

“Why do you take it then?”

He frowns. “Because I can handle it. You can’t.”

“How do we know?” I try to move the pill toward my mouth.

“Stop,” he huffs, really putting all of his weight on me this time. His body heat penetrates my robe. I’m laughing too hard to breathe. “You brat.” He finally gets hold of the pill and sits back on the couch. “Real funny, Harley.”

I watch him put the pills back in the bag. I hand him his money and he stuffs it on top. Then he rises, bending over so he can put the whole thing in his tight back pocket.

“Why won’t you let me do it? What if that girl who wore the pink heels wanted to do it? Would you let her?”

He sits back down, looking at me oddly. “Of course.”

“Then why not me?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t want you to do it.” He slides my drink over to me. “That’s better. Start slow. We have all summer,” he reminds me.

“All summer for what?” I don’t plan on spending any more time with him. I don’t even know why he’s here now. Why does he think that’s suddenly a possibility when this is the most time we’ve spent together since I met Dylan?

He takes a long drink of his own and makes a face. “Damn. The soda’s flat.” He shrugs, taking another drink anyway. “To de-square you.”

I don’t respond. I’m not a Square. I have common sense and that demands a subsequent desire for self-preservation. They go hand in hand. But I wonder as I take a slice of pizza if Dylan would have stayed if I hadn’t pushed him so hard to do the same thing. What if changing who you were meant becoming someone you weren’t? And what if just fixing who you were instead of changing created a person that didn’t have to lie?

Was I the liar? Or did Dylan just mess my head up?

Without thinking, I grab for my glass. There’s way more vodka than soda. I make unladylike noises when I swallow it down. It gives me chills down my arms and legs. “Ack. That is so gross.”

Bach reaches over and touches a patch of chill bumps on my thigh. “No one drinks because it tastes good.”

I don’t fix my robe. If I do he’ll know he bothered me. He’ll know those new chill bumps had nothing to do with the drink. I take another drink. Then I set it down. “Nope. Still gross.”

Bach grabs the flap on the hem of my robe and folds it over my thigh, covering me. He doesn’t look at me as he does it. He just does it. Then he grabs his own pizza and takes a massive bite. “They make the best pizza. Extra cheese, just the way I like it.”

I sit back and eat, pretending to watch the television. Why did he cover me up? I don’t want him to look at me, or touch me, or even want me, so that’s not what’s irritating me. What’s bothering me is that he’d rather give Pink Heels his pills and yet he won’t let me have them. I bet he’d rip her robe off and make her quiver. But he covers me up. Why does that bother me so much? Probably because he’s not doing what he always does. He’s doing something different. Different for him is disinterest. What could possibly disinterest Bach?

I write it off on Dylan. Bach may be a manwhore but Dylan’s still his friend. He wouldn’t risk their friendship over me. Plus apparently Bach still thinks Dylan and I have a chance. I grab another slice of pizza and shove it into my mouth. Why do I care what Bach does? Or Dylan? They’re both lying men who use their good looks and even better mouths to manipulate us women into believing their bullshit.

Bach’s phone rings, yanking me from my dark train of thought. He sucks some pizza sauce off his thumb and reaches into his pocket. “Yo?” he answers. “Yeah this is him. Where’d you read that? Online?” he repeats, scowling. “Nah, the room’s gone. Yeah, sorry about the mix up.” I can still hear the other person talking when Bach ends the call.

“Who was that?”

“Your boyfriend’s such a douchebag. He leaves me to pay all of the rent, and then puts an ad online for a roommate. I don’t want some creeper moving into his room. You know what he asked me?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “If I have a basement with a locked door. What the hell does he need a basement for?”

I frown, considering. “His macaroni art?” He glares at me. “Some people take their art work seriously, Bach.”

“You’re such a smartass.” He leans over and puts his phone back in his pocket, putting his face and body close to mine. He winks when we lock eyes, as if I’m going to fall into him and forgo my will. “You want a roommate?”

“You are not moving in here.” Even if I could use help with the rent. Asking my mom for more money didn’t make me feel good about myself.

“Why would I want to move into Square-ville?” He doesn’t straighten up, and instead moves his face closer to mine so close I can smell the lemon soda on his breath. “How much is your rent?”

“Fifteen hundred. How much is yours?”

“Twenty-five hundred.”

“That sucks for you. How are you going to pay it without Dylan since you don’t want a roommate?”

“I don’t want to live with another guy because that’s one too many dicks in my house. I don’t want to live with a female because we both know that unless she’s ninety I’m not going to let her be. It’ll get messy and I’ll just end up needing another roommate. But … ” he lets it hang in the air, “ … if you move in it’d be like Dylan’s still there. You won’t even have to get rid of his stuff.”

“Ninety’s your cut off?” Why am I off limits?

He chuckles, reaching over to wipe a smear of sauce off my cheek. He then stares at the red sauce on his finger before rubbing it onto my bottom lip. “If you don’t want to live with me just say so. I’ll find someone. Now that your boyfriend left me with a twelve hundred and fifty dollar hole in my pocket do you have any idea how many parties I’ll have to host to make up for it?” His purposely pathetic tone doesn’t bother me the way he wants it to.

When he finally straightens up and isn’t looking, I dart my tongue out and lick up the sauce he smeared on my lip. “He’s not my boyfriend anymore. And I don’t feel guilty or bad for you. I’m sure you can find someone to live with.”

“I don’t want just anyone. It’s hard to live with people I don’t trust.” He pours more vodka into his cup. “I have to trust them, or it drives me crazy. There’s some twisted people in this world.”

When he brings his glass to his lips I notice how his right hand starts to shake slightly. Why is his hand shaking?
What about living with a stranger makes him so nervous?
“There’s trustworthy people out there, Bach. They wouldn’t be so hard to find if you didn’t mess with people like Pink Heels.”

“Maybe you’d know there weren’t many out there if you did.” He chugs his drink to the bottom. “Think about it? If I have to live with someone who wants a basement with a lock I’ll lose my mind. You want more?” he asks, nodding toward my half-empty drink.