Ocean (Damage Control Book 5) (23 page)

I thank her and disconnect, wondering if it’s too early in the day to get drunk.

Then I remember Kayla is picking me up in a few hours and groan. Yeah, showing up drunk isn’t such a good idea.

What do you have to lose?
a little, snarky voice whispers at the back of my mind as I wander into the kitchen and wash down some codeine with a glass of water, then stagger into my bedroom to retrieve my wad of cash from its hiding place.
She already knows. She already thinks you’re a loser and a dangerous one, at that. Might as well face her with some liquid courage.

No fucking way.
I sink on my bed, counting the bills. If she comes, I don’t want her last impression of me to be of a goddamn drunkard. My pride was shredded as a kid begging from door to door, and later on the street, but it’s still very much alive. Like me.

I recount my money. It had seemed like a lot last week. After hearing how much I have to pay out, it seems like nothing.

I shove the bills into my wallet and grab my phone. I should try Raine again. Tell him about Mom. He hasn’t taken any of my calls and hasn’t replied to my texts. I only wrote Mom is sick, without mentioning what it is. I wanna tell him, preferably face-to-face, but again he doesn’t answer.

Fuck.

I try calling my aunt. We’re not really on speaking terms—she told me, when she came to pick Raine up years ago, never to call her—but she answers my calls occasionally, mainly to complain about Raine.

Like now.

“He’s gone again,” she gripes. “Ran off. God knows where he is. I’ve stopped notifying the police. Betcha the little punk is hanging around those buddies of his again, smoking pot in back alleys. Not that he’s little anymore. He’s eating like a horse and growing like nobody’s business. How can I stop him when he goes out? Next week he’s off my hands, you know.”

Next week.
“What?” I can’t remember why she’d be saying this as if I know. “What’s next week?”

“Memory like a sieve, your whole family. His eighteenth birthday. He’ll be an adult. Free to go and do as he pleases.”

Oh shit.
“Right.”

“You should be grateful I raised the brat all these years without complaints. He’s on his own from now on. I’m done.”

She disconnects before I think up a response. Aunt Martha likes her dramatic exits.

Funny how she sometimes told me Raine was happy with her and thank God he was with her so he can grow up a responsible young man and other times, like now, decides she was forced into it. I asked her many times if I should take Raine off her hands.

She told me she’d never let me take him from her.

Not that Raine would have agreed to coming to live with me, anyway. Although last time we spoke, one of the few, he’d sounded… off. Kinda bitter. Like I’d abandoned him, when he’s hated even talking to me on the phone, for chrissakes.

Shit, I’m beat. I should eat something, rest. Lying down sounds great. I ease down on the pillows I’ve stacked and breathe shallowly, waiting for the pain to pass. To take my mind off it, I grab my phone again and log online.

First I’m not sure what I’m looking for, browsing through random searches about race cars, and tattoos, and art supplies.

Then I type in Kayla’s name, and it clicks. Yeah, that’s what I want. To know more about her. I’ve wanted it for a while, then thought it too stalkerish—but what’s the harm in it now? She hates me already.

And it shouldn’t feel like a kick to the gut every time I think about it.

Ten minutes later I’m trying not to laugh, because ow, my ribs ache like a motherfucker, but she’s a funny girl. The pics she posts, the videos, the posts… Too damn funny.

Also, she’s obsessed with cat pics. And aliens.

She’s apparently studying fashion design, has a brother and a sister who enjoy making faces at the camera just as much as she is, has a crush on Tom Hiddleston as Loki, and stands for women’s rights. There’s no mention of fortunetelling cards, or palmistry, or any of that shit. There is a mention, though, of not believing in love.

I like all that.

Well, except for her not believing in love, and liking Loki, or any other guy for that matter.

Shit.
I sit back, rubbing a hand over my face. What the hell am I doing? Who cares what she likes, or who, and if she has a crazy cat as her profile picture? Who cares if she doesn’t believe in love?

Do I?

She’s not with me. Nor will she ever be.

Which reminds me. She’s coming to pick me up, and the time is passing. I should change. In fact… I sniff my armpit, because, girls. They’re weird about sweat.

Yeah, I’m kinda ripe, just from moving small things around the shop—and sweating out the booze I drank last night, alone, in my apartment.

Okay, shower. Change clothes. Get ready.

Move it.

Getting up is a challenge when your ribs burn like fire. An arm around my ribs, I manage to get to my feet and shuffle to the bathroom. Taking off my sweater and T-shirt is another challenge.

Wish she were here. Naked, standing in front of me, smiling. Touching me.

I’m hard before I even enter the shower stall. It’s too narrow. We’d have to stand pressed together to fit.

Like there could be any other fucking way we’d shower. I’d push her up against the wall, kiss her senseless. Then I’d wrap her legs around my hips, lift her up to suck on her tits. And I’d fuck her, hard and fast, feel her clench and pulse around me.

I slam my hand against the wall and turn on the water. The first splash is ice cold, jolting a curse out of me, and then it runs warm, sluicing down my bruised back. I barely notice the pain, my hard-on urgent, demanding my attention.

I hiss when I close my hand around my dick. It’s throbbing, hard and heavy, my balls hot and aching and tight.

Maybe it’s from seeing all those damn photos of her online. From remembering her body, her voice, her startled laughter. The teasing gleam in her eyes.

Oh shit, I’m so close already. I work my hand up and down my junk, fisting the tip, sliding back down to the base and squeezing. I remember her mouth around my dick, the concentrated expression on her delicate face as she took me in, those soft, pink lips stretched around my girth, and I groan, almost coming.

Not yet.

Fuck, it’s as if I haven’t come in years, not days. I puff out a breath as I bow my head, beating my meat faster, feeling the pressure build.

I close my eyes, and I’m deep inside of her, filling up that sweet, tight pussy, pounding into her, forcing those little mewling sounds from her throat.

Not enough. I want to hear her scream with pleasure. I wish… Too late, though. Too fucking late, and I’m so close, my body tightening, muscles clenching.

I think about her tits, so perfect, spilling over my palms, so soft and her nipples so hard, and I imagine the tips in my mouth as she comes, pulling me deep into her.

Blue
, she whispers in my mind as I spill against the wall, shaking and grunting.
Blue.

Kay loves Blue.

But that will never fucking happen.

Kayla

He’s waiting outside his building when I go to pick him up around five, a tall figure in a black jacket and long, jeans-clad legs, his hair messed up from the wind.

In fact, come to think of it, I can’t remember a time I saw his hair combed or gelled. It’s always a cute, sexy mess.

Stop thinking about his hair, Kay.

Then he slides into my tiny car, his shoulders wider than the seat, and I stop thinking about his hair because I’m only too aware of his face, and his body, and his male musk filling my senses.

Why did I think I could put my feelings on pause even for an hour-and-a-half drive, with him beside me? God only knows.

“Thank you for this,” he says quietly as I pull off, his voice barely audible over the Thirty Seconds to Mars album I have playing.

Music is a good buffer, so I leave the volume up.

“It’s on my way anyway.” I bite my lip as I slow down and stop at a traffic light. That didn’t come out the way I wanted it. “I hope your mom will be okay.”

“Me too.”

I hope he’ll say more, but he is quiet as we drive out of town and get on the interstate, fiddling with his phone.

I let him be for a while, catching glimpses of his handsome profile as I drive. His jaw is clenched like he’s pissed off, or in pain, and I want to tell him I’m sorry, and that he has to explain what he meant, and that this is stupid, and we have to talk.

But my courage fails me.

Then he says it for me. “I’m sorry, Kay. For disappointing you.”

And my courage returns in a flare of heat. “You haven’t disappointed me.”

He turns my way, his mouth twisting in a grimace. “Sure I did. I should’ve told you what a fuck-up I am from the start instead of wasting your time.”

I lower the music. “You’re not a fuck-up. And I wouldn’t say sex with you was a waste of time.”

Oh God.
Mouth on autopilot. Again.

But his lips curl up in a faint smile. “It was good, huh?”

“I never said that.”

“You implied it.”

And my girly parts totally agree with me. It was phenomenal sex. But that’s not the discussion we should be having right now.

“You were saying you were sorry,” I remind him, hoping he will finally tell me more, but he’s grinning now with a hint of canine and a sparkle in his eyes.

Ow, my ovaries. He’s too sexy for my car. God, if his sadness breaks my heart, that boyish cocksureness will be my downfall.

And I should focus on talking about this matter that’s tearing us into different directions, when all I want is to meet him in the middle.

For more sex, hopefully. And maybe something more?

Focus, Kay.

“You told me you caused a kid to die. What really happened, Ocean?” I chew on my lip. If I don’t stop, it’ll be a bloody mess. “I should have said something that night, after you told me about yourself. But you didn’t explain. You start talking about yourself and then stop, every time. You drop puzzles on me and then leave me to solve them. Only I can’t, not without clues. I want to know you. I want to know what you meant. Who died, and why? How is that your fault? Why does your brother hate you? What’s wrong with your mom? Why can’t you just tell me?”

He’s doing that wide-eyed thing again. Okay, maybe I shocked him a little with my mouth-diarrhea.

“Why do you want to know me?” He swallows hard, his throat clicking.

“Because I like you. Because I believe you’re a nice guy. And because you’re driving me crazy with your refusal to talk!”

He looks away, his mouth tightening. “I checked you out on Facebook,” he says. “Just wanted to know more about you.”

I glance at him quickly. “You did?”

He nods.

Aw shucks. Why does this make me happy?

“And?”

“You’re funny.”

“Didn’t you know that?” I’m ridiculous. This is ridiculous. Who cares if he stalked me on my social media? “Did you also check my Twitter?”

His mouth twitches. “Your profile pic is a cat with a mustache.”

Yep.
“And on Instagram?”

“A socked foot. Why…?” He snorts. “Why did you put a socked foot?”

“It’s
my
socked foot. Kinda like your drawings: parts of things, hinting at the whole.”

He really did check. He’s not making it up.

And I shouldn’t get so excited about it, but hey. Would he check up on a girl he only wanted to bang and leave?

I rest my case.

“You said you’re visiting your sister. I saw a pic of her. Her smile is like yours.” He shakes his head. “But yours is much prettier.”

Oh God.
There’s a lot of squeezing going on in my head. In my chest. But if I tackle-hug him, we’ll probably both die in a horrible accident. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” His gaze is laser-hot again, directed at me. One side of his mouth curls up. “I sure as hell do.”

My heart is thudding. He told me he found me pretty before, but that was different. That was when he was trying to get into my pants—not that I didn’t want it, too—and while he did dirty things to me.

This feels… more real somehow.

Eyes on the road, Kay.

“My family’s boring.” I roll one shoulder in a shrug as I overtake a car. “My parents live in the outskirts of Chicago, with my little brother, who’s turning seventeen next month. My parents hate each other, but won’t divorce because hey, what will the neighbors say? And my sister lives in Milwaukee with a boyfriend who’s a cheater and an a-hole because of what my parents will say. And it all sucks, but it’s not so bad.”

As I’ve come to realize. When compared to your family.

“It makes you sad,” he says in that quiet, raspy voice of his.

“It tells me love isn’t real. That relationships never work out. That they’re not worth the pain.”

And I don’t know why I’m telling him this, especially since he’s got me all confused and God, I’d give it a shot if he asked me to. I’d give
love
a shot.

I’m going out of my mind.

He takes a deep breath and presses a hand to his ribcage. I want to ask him how he’s managing the pain, how he’s been, but I keep my mouth shut and wait for him to say something.