Hopelessly Yours (4 page)

I bit my lip and said nothing. After a moment passed, I decided to give an inch. "It's okay."

He put the car back into motion, his voice showing the first vulnerability I'd heard all night. "No, it isn't. I had all these ideas of what it would be like to see you again—and the last thing I ever wanted was for you to look at me the way you just looked at me."

I stole a look over at him. I couldn’t help but smile at myself. He was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He used to drum his pencils on the desk when he was nervous. Maybe the Jace I knew wasn't gone, he was just wrapped in this cocky routine he put on for the world. Somewhere beneath all the delicious muscle and confidence, the guy I remembered was waiting.

I shook my head. I was forgetting a pivotal part of our story. The end.

"You never called me back.” My throat was on fire. I pawed at my dark hair, yanking it behind my ears. "You left that note and..." I trailed off. Maybe I was more drunk than I thought. I never told anyone about that day or how he'd broken my heart irreparably. I just wanted a real explanation. I wanted an apology.

So I waited.

Suddenly, a cat had his tongue and he had nothing to say.

He turned on the radio, and some screeching metal gave me my answer.

He wasn't sorry.

He never cared about me at all.

C
lint Heights was the armpit of town. The buildings were in disrepair, with ‘For Lease’ signs kneeling in yellowed grass, pathetic and forgotten. No one in their right mind would set up shop here—not when the few businesses in our patch of hell were notorious for getting hit on a regular basis.

My uncle, Thomas ‘Tommy’ Murrow, would drive down the street scowling at the crumbling storefronts and talk about days when the roads were taken care of. When Macone kept out the bums and drug dealers. But no one had any money here except those on Macone’s payroll. Breaking someone's fingers or terrifying them into submission only worked if they had the means of pooling cash together.

Misha’s Grocery had cobwebbed shelves lined with candy that was probably as old as me, stale ass potato chips, and coolers peppered with soda. The barbershop across from it wasn't much better. The people that lived here had next to nothing, and it showed in the few local businesses that couldn't scrounge up the money to leave like the rest. The people unlucky enough to live here had to hope their neighbors had more than they did and that it wasn't their turn to get stripped by thugs.

I turned onto Maple Road. If there was a nice area in Clint Heights, a street where you didn't have to be worried about packing heat if you were out past 8pm, it was the street I lived on. The houses were tiny and nearly identical, built back in the fifties. The rusted shutters and sheet metal should have crumbled like everything else, but they stood like a monument to simpler days. Happier days.

“Happy days?” I snorted as I pulled up to the curb and shut off the engine. There was nothing happy about this street, other than the fact that the poison that infected Clint Heights passed it by. The Jacobsons on the corner fought like cats and dogs. Every now and then, Mrs. Jacobson would work out in her yard and I'd see what fresh damage her husband had done to her face. Mike Wallace next door raised the baddest seven-year-old twin boys I'd ever had the misfortune of meeting. Their mom split when they were in diapers, putting this place in her rearview mirror and never looking back. When Mike walked their mutt, he'd stop at the end of the road, watching for her. Like she'd just gone out for eggs and would be back any minute.

And then there was my house.

I tossed a look at the peeling split pea green paint that turned my stomach. It was the same color it had always been, the color of vomit and decay, but I never got used to it. I never thought of it as home, even though it was the only home I'd ever known.

I had something in common with the twins next door. We were all abandoned by our mothers. I had one up on them—my mother barely waited for them to sever the umbilical cord before she dumped me on my grandmother.

There were no pictures of her in my grandmother’s house. Hell, the old witch wouldn't even speak my mother's name. To my grandmother’s chagrin, she saw my mother every time she looked at my face. I had mommy dearest’s rich colored skin, a product of my Italian heritage, even though the family name was changed from Murlono to Murrow when they emigrated. I had her ebony colored hair and brown eyes. My grandmother liked to make it very clear that she and I had nothing in common besides our last name. That wasn’t exactly true—we both hated each other's guts.

I slammed the car door shut, inhaling and exhaling before I walked up the driveway toward the house.

I opened the door, the smell of cigarettes and rotten fruit saying hello. The living room was dark except for the blue glow of the television. The swelling orchestral music oozing from the speakers coupled with the fact that my grandmother never watched anything else told me that she was watching
Lost
. She was still in her maid’s uniform, a polo and blue chinos wrapping her skeletal frame. A shiny gray nametag that read ‘Priscilla’ hung haphazardly on the polo.

Smoke curled from her cigarette, the ash shooting down to the butt. A familiar thought buzzed through my head. What if I just walked back out? Crashed at some hotel and let her burn this house to the ground? She always talked about not being able to escape me. Escape this life. Ignoring that cigarette would grant her wish.

I didn't go through with it. I never did.

I took the cigarette from her twig-like fingers and ground it out until the embers cooled. She stirred, her ancient face lined with wrinkles, her mouth pulled into a frown. What dream had I disturbed? Something happy, where my mother had never dumped me on her?

I ruffled my hair with a sigh as the floor squeaked, my uncle's massive frame appearing in the living room doorway. Uncle Tommy was only 46, but he looked 66. He used to be called ‘Tom the Tank’, a beast of muscle and dead black eyes, but his muscles were hidden behind soft skin these days. The dark eyes that used to strike fear in men's hearts were just tired now. Even though he'd put on some weight, he was still 6'3 and had a presence that made you take notice. He still had enough juice to make the nickname ‘Tommy Two Ton’ a short-lived one.

He peered into the darkness, eyes landing on me. "Hey kid."

Anyone else would have garnered a scowl with the whole kid thing, but it was the only term of endearment I got in this house. It was better than some of my grandmother's favorites. Things like ‘idiot’ and ‘stupid’.

Uncle Tommy lumbered into the room, sweeping his stringy blond hair out of his eyes. His eyes immediately went to her hand, knowing her tendency to fall asleep with her cigarette going strong.

"She's gonna burn this place to the ground one day,” he said, as simply as one would comment on the weather. It was a casual observation, one that didn't seem to bother him one way or the other.

I grunted a reply and followed him to the kitchen. The source of the rotten fruit smell was a huddle of half-drained wine coolers. The same wine coolers that had been there for two weeks now. I was in a standoff with the old lady. She used to make me clean this place from top to bottom. It was the least I could do, she used to say, while watching me like a hawk.

She was my overseer as I scrubbed the floor and took out the trash like I didn't have homework to do. Or fresh air to take advantage of. The only toys I ever got were a broom and a mop bucket. If I was lucky and she was working a double, I could add the TV remote.

Well, I wasn't her fucking maid anymore. Whenever she threatened to kick me out on my ass, Uncle Tommy would step in and tell her to leave me alone. Her job with Happy Maids barely covered the utilities and the cable she insisted on having. Everything else was paid for by our work. Working for Macone wasn't Wall Street, but it beat minimum wage. As long as we collected, either in blood or cash, we got a steady stream of green. And if I kept stashing it away, maybe I'd have enough to eventually hop into my Explorer and put this place in my rearview mirror, too.

Uncle Tommy passed me a beer, and the hiss when I popped the tab settled over me like a warm blanket. I sipped it and sighed. I never liked the taste of beer, but I loved the warmth. The buzz clouded my thoughts and carried me off to a place far from here.

Uncle Tommy dropped into one of the chairs, the metal legs whining. "How'd tonight go?"

I wished he was talking about the party. About something good and golden, like Victoria Johnston. The dark haired girl of my dreams. The girl I subconsciously looked for whenever I happened to be in the nice part of town.

I'd played our reunion over in my head. I'd gotten the kiss right. That kiss...the way she tasted, all warmth and innocence with an undercurrent of wildness. Like a cat who was used to being stroked and cared for but once she stepped out onto the grass outside, moved like something feral and free.

But even if Uncle Tommy wanted to live vicariously through me, recounting his days of youth before they were cut short and he was locked up, I'd say her name and he'd say, Victoria who? No one knew about her but me. She was my sweetest memory. She was a throwback to a time when I wanted so desperately to be different. To be normal. And then I did something stupid and fell for a girl that would leave me. Despite what my grandmother said, I wasn’t stupid. Guys like me didn't end up with girls like Victoria.

*

H
er hand was like the Fourth of July. Sparks shot from her fingertips and lit me up from the inside out. When she squeezed my fingers, jerking me through branches and brush, my cock twitched in my jeans. She'd been stealing looks at me all night. Not the coy little smiles, biting her lip before she blushed and looked away. No—she looked at me with fire in her eyes. She looked at me with ‘fuck me’ in her gaze and I had a feeling when I touched her, really touched her, she'd melt around my fingers.

We stopped at a clearing, a blanket and a push light casting a dull glow that didn't compare to her smile. I didn't know what I’d done to deserve to be smiled at that way, but I wouldn't ask any questions. I smiled back. She made me want to smile. She made me want to tell her all my darkest secrets. She made me want to sink inside her and forget the rest of the world.

She threw her arms around my neck, her laugh a musical note that I wanted to hold onto forever. "Kiss me, Jace."

My heart beat a million miles a minute when our lips met. I'd lost count of how many times we kissed, but the pulsing in my chest, in my groin, was like the first time all over again.

Her hand took mine and put them beneath her skirt and I paused, eyes widening. That was new.

When I pulled away, her eyes fell. "Don't you want to touch me?"

I cupped her face, forcing her eyes to meet mine. "Of course I do, Vix. But I—" I wasn't sure how to tell her that I knew how to touch a girl. Kelly at the end of the street was a junior, but the two-year difference was irrelevant when our bodies met.

Victoria wanted more than the physical, but I was all thumbs. Me and Victoria had the mental down, the attraction. My throat got itchy when I tried to talk to her, impress her. My stomach knotted and twisted when she was near. But if we did this, it would change everything. I wanted to be sure.

I didn't want to ruin her.

So that's what I said.

Her eyes softened and she nuzzled my hand. "You won't ruin me, Jace. You're the best thing that ever happened to me." She put my hand back where it belonged, on her soft, warm skin. Standing on her blanket in the woods, I held her gaze as I drew up her thighs, hand curving toward her warmth and hitching a breath when I hit her sex, finding no barrier.

The wildness in her eyes undid me, as she bit her lip and whispered two words: I'm yours.

I slid into her wetness, her silky juices coating my fingers and her moans wrapping around my heart.

*

I
chugged the rest of the beer and crushed the can and the memory. It was tangled metal; an indistinguishable mess. That's what I did to her heart. But she'd looked at me tonight like no time had passed at all. Like an explanation would have erased all of my sins.

The things I'd done, the people I'd hurt—that she couldn't forgive. How could she take me as I was when I couldn't even stand to look at myself in the mirror?

Uncle Tommy was waiting for my response, dark eyes studying me intently. He’d asked me a question. About my run-in with Mark Benton.

"He got the message loud and clear."

Uncle Tommy finished his beer and gave me a nod of approval. "You did good."

I ran my thumb over my knuckles, remembering the crunch of bone and the wet lick of blood. "I'm heading to bed."

I went to my room and climbed right in, barely kicking off my boots before I pulled the cover to my chin. I closed my eyes and prayed for dreams of Victoria.

M
y mother was waiting for me.

That was weird for two reasons. One: I'd never given my parents cause to wait up. I think I've missed curfew once in my life. Five minutes past midnight...and I called as soon as I knew that not even speeding would get me home on time, throwing myself at the mercy of the court. Two: Even if I were the type to keep a parent up worrying, I wouldn't have expected that the parent that flipped on the light, glowering in my direction, would be my mother.

I dropped my keys on the table in the entryway, glowering right back. "What's up?"

She jerked her blond bangs behind her ear, aqua eyes scolding me from a distance. "You tell me."

I pulled out my cell, the time flashing up at me. It was thirty minutes past twelve. "It's just half an—" I stopped mid sentence and straightened my spine. "I'm eighteen, Mom. Nineteen in three more months. 12:30am is a perfectly acceptable time for me to come home." I kicked off my flats. "It's not like I have class in the morning."

"I don't know how things worked on campus—"