In Ruins (11 page)

My head spins to Tucker, guilt warming my cheeks. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm so busy feeling sorry for myself that I didn't even think of what he must be feeling. My shame is obvious, and an apology is on the tip of my tongue, but I don't know the right words to say I'm sorry for complaining about my absentee parents when his father is dead. Especially when he died right around Christmas, too.

“Tuck—”

“Don't, Princess,” he whispers, his brow furrowed in sympathy. “It sucks not having them around. For whatever reason,” he adds.

I chew on my lip, subconsciously recovering the inch I took back just moments ago, and his hand slips tentatively onto my far shoulder and squeezes. It's my undoing. My head drops onto his biceps and I fold my knees in front of me and sit sideways to face him, Jax Teller and SAMCRO forgotten on the TV.

“You must really miss him.” My voice comes out an uncharacteristic whisper. Tucker never talks about his father, and I hate that he has to hold it all in.

Pain flashes through army green, and also a smidgen of resentment. I suspect it's for his mother. I know she doesn't handle the holidays all that well, and surely it takes a toll on Tuck. He looks conflicted, and for a moment I don't know if he's going to change the subject back to me. I don't think he knows either, but then he sighs. “Yeah,” is all he says, but it's a concession. Something honest, something true, about something I know he never talks about.

My fingers find a loose thread in the hem of his white T-shirt, and I absently twirl it around my knuckle, staring at the stark, light-colored string against the dark blue of my freshly painted fingernail. That's what Tucker is. He is light in darkness. The comic relief, quick to fill the role of the joker, eager to lighten any mood. But I want him to let go of that responsibility. I want him to feel, too. So maybe I can be his light.

“So what will you and Billy do?” Tucker asks. “For Christmas and New Year's and whatever?”

I shrug. “I'll decorate with him. Order a dinner. I try to make it normal, you know. I think he'll probably be with his friends for New Year's this year, though. He's starting to be too cool for me. What about you and your mom?”

Tucker smiles sadly. “She'll insist on me being home, that we're going to have a family Christmas, just the two of us, and then she won't get out of bed. Or she'll plan for us to go to my aunt's and be with their family, and then cancel at the last minute and claim an illness.” His words are riddled with resignation, but there's no scorn, and I realize his resentment from earlier wasn't aimed at his mother after all. He shrugs. “I'll probably end up at Cap's in the end, after she goes to bed.”

“That sucks, Tuck.” I don't let go of the thread, but I do meet his gaze, looking up at him from under my lashes, my eyes saying more than my words ever could.

“Sure does, Princess,” he breathes.

I let his scent of aftershave and the faintest waft of cologne blanket me. It is pure comfort with a whisper of thrill, and I wish I could just melt into it—close my eyes and sleep in his perfect, male scent.

“Your dad on business or vacation?” Tucker asks.

I sigh. “Business.” I ignore the spark of guilt at yet another lie. But he
is
away because of how he chose to do business. And his plea deal was very much a business deal. “And before you say he'd be here with me if he could, he wouldn't.”

“Carl—”

“No. He wouldn't. He could be here, Tuck. He chose not to.” I give him this bit of truth, cursing the moisture pooling in the corners of my eyes. I never cry. What the hell is happening to me?

Tucker's large palm cups my cheek, his thumb brushing under my lower lashes, saving me my dignity before the one rogue tear can escape, and I'm infinitely grateful. “I was going to say that that says something about him. Not you. Okay? Him choosing not to be around.”

I stare at my lap and nod vaguely. But it does say something about me. About me, and Billy, and my mother. It says that we weren't enough for him. “At least your dad would be here if he could,” I murmur. I find his eyes again. “I'm sorry, Tuck. It's so unfair. My dad could be with me and chooses not to, and your dad…I'm so sorry he got sick.” I choke out the words.

Tucker's jaw clenches and he glares at me. Intensely. Unblinkingly.

Shit
. Did I overstep? I do that sometimes. I just talk, blurt whatever I'm thinking. I just thought we were connecting and…
shit
. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

“He wouldn't.” Tucker's voice is so low and toneless that at first his words don't even register, and I just frown up at him. “He wouldn't,” he repeats. “Be here if he could.”

Huh?
Tucker's father died of cancer when we were in middle school. “What—”

Suddenly Tucker sits up, his back straightening and his energy changing like he's preparing for something. He radiates intensity, and when he leans his face closer to mine I can feel the nervous current buzzing through him in the cells of my own body.

“You remember when my dad was sick?” he asks.

I nod. Of course I do.

“He was in the hospital for a few months,” Tucker says, but of course I already knew that.

“For chemo,” I offer, but Tucker just exhales harshly.

“We thought he was doing better. The doctors said…” He trails off. “He came home. And then right before Christmas…”

“I know, Tucker,” I whisper. I place my hand on his forearm meaning to soothe him, but his fervor is making me anxious, and my hold is almost desperate.

He shakes his head. “He wasn't getting chemo.” His stare bores into me, willing me to understand something beyond my grasp.

“Carl, he was sick, but…he didn't have cancer.” He watches me carefully. “He was depressed and…he tried to kill himself.”

Holy shit
.

“He was admitted to an in-patient mental facility. He was in therapy and on anti-anxiety meds and antidepressants, and he came home.”

Oh, God.

“And then, a week before Christmas Eve, he took my mom and me to pick out a tree, helped us hang all the decorations, hung up the lights on the outside of the house. We were going to a movie but my dad said he was too tired. The meds had that side effect. So he said good night and then went upstairs, and my mom and I went to some stupid Christmas movie she wanted to see. She didn't want to wake him when we got home so she just got quietly into bed, and when she woke the next morning, he was already cold.”

I gape at him, searching desperately for the right words, but I'm not sure they exist.

“He downed both bottles of his meds. While we were at the movies.”

It's then that I realize my grip on Tucker's forearm is so tight it's leaving marks on his skin, and I retract my hand immediately.

“God, Tucker,” I breathe.

“He was planning it. The whole time we were picking out the tree, decorating—all of it. And we had no idea. But then, looking back…He kept saying things about how it had to be the best tree we've ever had. He insisted on buying my mom a bunch of fancy new ornaments even though we were having money problems. I mean, he hadn't worked in months and he was buying her this ridiculously expensive crystal tree topper we didn't need.”

Tucker shakes his head, still incredulous after all these years. “He just sent us off to the movies, knowing it would be the last time we saw him and—” His voice breaks and he slams his mouth shut, swallowing down his grief.

But I don't want him to swallow it down.

After all, I know something about spinning stories and hiding shame. I know the toll it takes. And all this time, Tucker was hiding this. Living with
this
.

I don't think. I just climb into his lap and wrap my arms around his waist, tucking my head under his chin. Because nothing I say will help, but
this
, hopefully this can offer him some consolation.

He doesn't hesitate. He just envelops me in his arms, holding me so tightly it almost cuts off my breath, and buries his face in my hair.

“Princess,” he breathes, and I pull back to look at him.

I know the right thing to say is
I'm sorry
, but I've never been good at saying the right thing. “He was sick, Tuck. He—”

“I know, Carl,” he says gruffly. “I know he was sick, that he wasn't in his right mind, that he was chemically imbalanced. I know all of it. But whatever the reason, he still chose to do it. He could have stuck it out and fought. But—”

“Tuck—”

“I
know
.” And this time his voice is just despondent, like he's given up.

I can't bear it. I press my lips to his, hard. His hands cup my face, his fingers thrust roughly into my hair, and he holds my mouth to his. His lips are firm and desperate, molding mine, stealing my breath, and for once I just let him lead. I let him take from me whatever he needs.

But he doesn't deepen the kiss. We're just lips and breaths, breaths and lips. It's more reverent than passionate, and when he ends it, he holds his forehead to mine until our breathing calms.

Tucker strokes my hair, and subtly I feel the tension in his corded muscles dissipate. I lay my head on his shoulder and his grip around me loosens as he repositions me more comfortably on his lap.

“Thank you for telling me,” I whisper into his neck.

“Only Cap knows.”

I nod. He doesn't have to say anything else. He doesn't have to ask me not to repeat what he's confided, and I don't have to assure him I never would. It goes without saying. And for the first time I wish I had the courage to confide in him in return. To confide in
anyone
. He said Cap knew about his father. Even Tina doesn't know about mine.

I am a coward.

But then, what my father did is far more shameful. He destroyed families—
lives
. Tuck's dad was ill. Mine was just plain greedy.

Without another word, we go back to watching motorcycles and gunfights, and it isn't long before the rise and fall of Tucker's breathing lulls me to sleep.

The next thing I know, the TV is silent and I'm being carried up the stairs, half conscious. He lays me gently onto my bed and tugs my comforter up to my chin. It's when I hear his descending footsteps that I manage to speak.

“Tuck…”

His footfalls grow heavier as he comes back to the bed. “Yeah, Princess?” he whispers in the dark.

“Stay.”

There's a moment of hesitant silence, then a soft sigh and the rustling of clothing, and then Tucker is climbing into bed behind me in only his boxer briefs, and I drift off to sleep in his arms.

I wake the next morning alone, but the way his scent clings to my pillow proves his visit wasn't a dream. I turn my face into it and inhale deeply.

My phone buzzes and I reach for it blindly on my nightstand. The screen announces texts from Tucker, the first of which are from about thirty minutes ago.

And then, almost ten minutes later:

And then there's a photo. A selfie of just the bottom half of his face pressing a soft kiss to my sleeping forehead.

I melt into a puddle on my bed, a grin stinging my cheeks as I laugh down at my phone. It's funny how context is everything. If it were any other guy, that photo would be the creepiest thing in the world. But because it's him, because it's
us
, it's just completely and utterly perfect.

I twist the phone behind me and snap a photo of my shorts-covered ass.

Twenty minutes later he responds.

Present Day

Halloween is the one holiday I don't loathe. The one holiday that has nothing to do with family. That is instead about dressing up and getting fucked up and pretending to be someone else for a night. I am definitely down with that.

Of course we're hosting tonight's party. The theme is favorite characters from TV, movies, and books. Pretty broad. And still, the guys just had to choose costumes for us that remind me of Carl. But then, I liked
Sons of Anarchy
before I ever watched it with her, and fuck it, I'm taking it back.

We've all applied our fake tattoos, including the giant one on our backs of a grim reaper holding an M-16 with a scythe blade in one hand and a crystal ball in the other—pointless since we're wearing shirts, but whatever. I pull on jeans and a white T-shirt, then slip on my faux leather cut. They actually look pretty authentic, considering. My dirty blond hair has gotten a little long, and when Ben announced our costume a few weeks ago, I decided I'd put off cutting it.

I go out with a couple of the guys to pick up the kegs and some liquor, and by the time I get back, people are already showing up. An hour later the house is completely packed. I'm already on my fourth beer when Carl walks in with her friend Devin, and my traitorous dick instantly swells in my jeans. My brain tries to remind it that we don't want her anymore. That she's a liar. That she sat back and listened to me confide every last heart-wrenching family secret while hiding her own behind smiles and sex. But my dick doesn't care any more now than it did a few weeks ago, when I apparently lost my damned mind and shamelessly dragged her into my bedroom. That particular memory doesn't help the situation in my jeans. Neither does the fact that she's dressed like a wet fucking dream.

She's dressed like Daenerys Targaryen from
Game of Thrones
—Khaleesi—and from the first season, too, in a badass nomadic getup with her flat midriff peeking out for all to see.

Motherfucker
.

Her golden hair is already longer than she used to wear it, and she's added something to it—like extensions or something.

I head back to the keg before she sees me, and refill my cup, deciding that tonight would be a good opportunity to get completely shit-faced.

“Hi, Tuck.”

I turn to find Courtney, the redhead Ben tried to hook me up with at our first party, smirking at me.

“Or should I say Jax?”

I offer her a forced laugh, as if I haven't heard that one five times already tonight. She hands me her cup and I fill it for her. She's dressed in tight black leggings and a matching tank top with a Pink Ladies jacket from Grease draped over her shoulders. She matches about five other of her friends I've seen traipsing around the party.

Original
.

“You just get here?” I ask her. I notice a couple of the guys checking her out, and I push myself to do the same. She
is
a cute girl. Physically, anyway. Hot in all of the typical ways—small waist, big tits, lean hips. Problem is, I've spent what feels like a lifetime developing a very specific taste for very particular proportions, and it's hard not to think this Courtney chick's tits are just a tad too big for her frame, and that I prefer a slightly plumper ass.

And blond hair and green eyes.

Fuck.

“So tell me, do you have your member tattoo?” she asks, lashes batting like a demented pair of dragonfly wings.

“Sure do,” I reply, and she follows me as I start walking through the kitchen.

“Can I see it?”

I laugh. “I'm not taking off my shirt in the middle of a party. Go find Ricky. I'm sure he'd be happy to accommodate you.” I've already seen him stripping his cut and shirt off to show three other girls.

Courtney shakes her head. “I want to see
your
tattoo.”

I'm not an idiot. I know she's flirting with me. Maybe even offering me something. And I should be into it—I
know
I should—but I'm not. Instead, I keep thinking of Carl in that damn costume. And it's because of that that I give in.

“Follow me.” I lead her down the hall and around to my room. I'm not planning to try anything with her. I'm just trying to…I don't know what I'm trying to do. Just not think about Carl.

I slide off my cut, and Courtney is behind me, reaching under my T-shirt before I even flip the light switch on. The lights are so bright they're almost blinding, and as I grip the hem of my shirt to take it off, I change my mind. I'm not a fucking stripper. I let her push the material up instead, and have her look.

Her fingers trace the fake ink. “This is so hot,” she murmurs in a way I'm sure she thinks is seductive.

But I just want to shout at her, “It's fucking fake, you idiot.” And I know I'm being a jerk, at least internally. She could be a nice girl for all I know. But I never
will
know. Because I don't fucking
care
.

Her nails are too long, and pointed, like those of a witch, and they scratch gratingly along my skin as her fingers continue to trace past where I know the tattoo ends, and along the lines of muscle in my back. There is nothing erotic about it; it's just fucking creepy. I can't take it anymore, and I shrug her off and she lets my shirt fall back into place as I turn around to face her.

“You really do look like him. Jax Teller. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“You know he's not a real person, right? That
Sons of Anarchy
was a TV show?” I'm being an ass, this time out loud, and even though I know she's done nothing wrong, she's irritating me.

But the corners of her mouth curl wryly, like she thinks I'm playing with her. Her fingers find the hem of my shirt again, this time in the front, and they slide along the top of my jeans.

I wait for a reaction from my dick. Anything. Please. Because it would be so much easier if I could just be into this girl. If I could have some fun with her. Take the first step in actually moving on.

“He doesn't have to be real,” she coos. “He's a character. A fantasy. And isn't that what Halloween is all about?” Her fingers slip under my shirt again and over the grid of my abs.

I wait. I will my body to give a shit about her touch. And it does—but in the wrong way. Her nails might as well be scraping a blackboard. I give up; I grab her wrists and stop her exploration. “Sorry, Courtney. Not gonna be your fantasy tonight.” I try to be nice about it, but I've had enough. I want her the fuck out of my room.

“I don't have to be Courtney, you know. I can be whoever you want me to be.”

I frown at her, but she starts lowering herself to her knees.

Well,
shit
.

Her fingers move tentatively to my belt buckle.

Can I do this? I haven't hooked up with anyone but Carl in over a year. Obviously this girl isn't expecting anything other than a good time. Rationally I know the vague sense of guilt rising in my gut over the fact that I had sex with Carl only a couple of weeks ago isn't warranted. She knew it didn't mean we were getting back together. She was just looking for
a normal college experience—
a one-night-fucking-stand—and in a fit of rage and jealousy I convinced myself I could be the guy to give it to her. But I made it damn clear she shouldn't expect anything from me. I've never lied to her. I'm not the liar. And she got the message, and obviously agreed wholeheartedly, since she got up and walked out barely minutes after I finished inside her.

And neither of us has mentioned it since.

But I look down at this cute girl, her fire-red hair falling over her shoulders, brown eyes shining up at me with lustful promise, and her sharp claws clanking against my belt buckle, and I know I can't go through with it. The lights shine too bright in the room, highlighting the glaring differences between this girl and the one I had in here a few weeks ago. The only one I've had in here. And I have to accept that, for whatever reason, I just don't want this girl. I don't want her mouth on me, and I certainly don't want to fuck her. Because she
can't
be whoever I want her to be. She can't be the one girl I do want. The one who never really existed in the first place.

I step back from her and offer a smile of consolation. I shrug. “We should get back to the party,” I murmur, and then I turn and walk out, leaving my door wide open, hoping she'll follow, but I don't really care either way at this point, as long as I get the hell away from her.

I grab myself another beer and try not to scan the party for the reason
I'm
unable to have a normal college experience. I spot her friend Devin dressed as The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, complete with fake piercings. She's chatting up one of our attackers, Max Brighton, and Carl is nowhere to be found. I could just ask her where Carl is, but then she would tell Carl, and Carl would think I give a shit.

I take a lap around the party. The house is big, but it's not that big. There are only so many places someone can be, and an anxious fury starts to build when I realize I'm looking for Ben as much as I am her. If I don't find either of them, I might completely lose it.

I know Ben asked her out. And I know she agreed. It had me seething for days. But then I heard it didn't come to fruition. She kept blowing him off, making and canceling tentative plans, or fabricating excuses. But while that knowledge calmed me somewhat, I think it's only made Ben more interested. He's accustomed to having pussy served to him on a platter, and Carl's elusion is only making hers more desirable. And though rationally I knew being at school with her would be like this—that she'd attract attention, including probably from my own friends—knowing it and living it are two different things.

When I find Ben in the garage getting more vodka from the freezer, my relief is palpable. But it still doesn't explain where Carl has gone off to, and though I have my doubts that she could be hooking up with some random guy, the truth is I don't really know.

I suck in a shallow breath and make my way over to Ben.

“Hey, bro,” he murmurs. “Grab this.” He hands me an icy super-sized bottle of Smirnoff, takes two more out, and then replaces them with new bottles from a crate to chill in the freezer.

I should bullshit with him a little, try not to be so transparent, but I don't have time. “You seen Carl around?” I ask as we make our way back into the party.

He eyes me sideways, and I doubt he's buying my attempt at nonchalance one single bit. “Saw her earlier. That costume, dude. She is fucking something, huh?”

Yeah, she's
something—
she's fucking
mine
is what she is.
But I don't say that. I just swallow down my bitter, possessive growl, and try to keep my cool. Because she isn't mine. Not anymore.

“You know where she went?” I ask instead.

Ben stops walking, so I do the same. His brow furrows and I wonder if he's onto me. “You knew her in high school, right?” he asks.

I'm not sure how he knows that, but I guess it isn't really a secret. “Yeah.”

“Is there something I should know about, Green? I mean, I haven't hidden the fact that I've been looking to take her out. But if you have a thing for her—”

“No.” I cut him off. “No thing. Just some history. But it's over and done with. I had a question about a team project we're working on for a class, and I was wondering where she went off to.”
So much for not being a liar.

Ben nods, placated. I'm not sure he actually believes me, but he doesn't really care. He only offered to back off because he knew I wouldn't take him up on it.

“Well, I don't know where she is,” Ben says. “We were talking, and then we saw you walk off with Courtney, and we started taking shots. She got a phone call and went outside to take it, and when she came back she was all upset and looking for her friend—the roommate. Girl shit, I assumed, so I left them to it.” Ben's report only sets me more on edge, and I have no fucking choice but to ask Devin what the fuck is going on. Because like I said, I am apparently incapable of just letting her go.

Letting
it
go. I meant
letting it go
.

Devin is still standing in the living room with Max, flirting heavily, and I wonder what the fuck kind of friend she is standing around looking to get laid when her friend is supposedly upset.

“What's up, Brighton,” I interrupt them.

Max grins brightly, his eyes heavy with drink and gleaming with lust. I don't really blame him; Devin is an attractive girl.

“Green. Or should I say Teller,” he slurs, and I roll my eyes at yet another reference to the
Sons of Anarchy
character I barely even resemble. “You know Devin?”

I try on a smile. “Nice to meet you.” Technically I know who she is, but this is the first time I've been introduced to her.

“You too.
Green
, is it?” Her smile is surprisingly almost kittenish, and I guess that she's just one of those girls whose default mode is flirty.

“This is Tucker,” Max interjects, slapping my back as his lopsided grin stretches wider. “Team's new badass defender.”

I force a laugh. “Thanks, man.” Max starts to say something else, but I interrupt him and look to Devin, who's still smiling at me. “Do you, uh—know where Carl is? Ben said she got a call and was upset. He's worried about her.”
And the lies just keep on coming.

Devin's chocolate eyes narrow playfully and her smile turns coy. “
He's
worried, is he?”

I don't have fucking time for this. “Do you know where she is or not?” My tone relays my impatience.

Devin sighs and rolls her eyes. “She had a family emergency. We've all been drinking so I was going to take a cab with her, but there were none available for over an hour with Halloween and everything. Anyway, she got a ride.”