Poser (9 page)

I thought the jab would make him laugh. Or at least result in a quick comeback. Silence stretched between us, more eerie than anything I might hear rustling in the nearby trees.

It scared me.

“Braeden?” My voice was tentative.

“I’ve never done this before.” The strain in his words was undeniable. It didn’t ease any of my disruptive feelings. “I’ve never been in a relationship. I’ve never been in love.”

“You’re my first love too.”

He made sound, a cross between a groan and a growl, and cupped my face to stare at me intently. “You’re not my first, Ivy. You’re my
only
. There’s never gonna be another you.”

I bit my lower lip. So badly I wanted to believe that. So irrevocably did I want his heart and his future. But there was this little voice deep in my head that whispered I wasn’t good enough.

“Listen to me,” he intoned, shaking me gently.

I fixed my eyes on his face.

“I don’t care that you slept with him. It doesn’t in any way, shape, or form control the way I see you. Fuck, it isn’t even a factor. I should have told you that months ago. I should have made sure you knew in my eyes…” He picked up my hand and laid it against his chest. The strong beat beneath my palm seemed to accentuate his words. “In my heart, you are on a level no one else will ever reach.”

“Braeden…” A tear tracked down my cheek, followed by another. Lord knows I wasn’t proud of that night. It was honestly the biggest regret of my life. The self-loathing I felt knowing I allowed Zach to touch my body chipped away at pieces of me until it felt like I might shatter at any moment.

And yes, I worried maybe Braeden thought less of me. I worried everyone on campus looked at me and saw a slut.

I wasn’t going to worry anymore.

“It doesn’t matter who came before me as long as I’m your last.” He continued, the pads of his thumbs brushing away my tears. Then he closed the distance between us and kissed me tenderly.

Channing Tatum himself could show up at my door (he’s so totally hot) and it wouldn’t matter.

Braeden owned me.

He would until the day I died.

Braeden

As long as whatever you tell me is the truth, then I don’t care how ugly it sounds.

Were her words a sign?

A sign that everything I’d done to protect the girl I loved more than my own life was wrong?

Was my protection getting in the way of us being as close as two people could be?

I brought Ivy out here so we could talk, so we could address the stuff we neglected to talk about, but stuff that was there nonetheless.

I thought the stars, the blankets, the pillows, and cool night air would make it easier. I guess in some ways, it did. It sure as hell bought me a lot of brownie points in the romance department. When I lit up that lantern and watched her eyes round at everything I’d done, my inner jock hollered,
Touchdown!
Because clearly, Blondie liked what she saw.

What I said to her was the truth. I didn’t judge her about what happened with Zach. Yeah, I was pissed off and hurt when I first found out, and I experienced an unfortunate case of diarrhea of the mouth, but I never thought badly of her.

Then I found out it wasn’t consensual. I found out it was rape.

How does a man digest that shit? To know the most vile, horrific act was done to the woman he loved?

My God, when would the abuse toward women ever end? It seemed like every single woman in my life was the victim of a man.

My mother, Rimmel, Ivy.

To see how it ripped them apart, to watch them try and hold it together, was fucking hard as shit. It might be the hardest thing I’d ever had to witness.

I wasn’t able to help my mother. I was too young to step in and stop my father from beating her. And when he did, he’d hurl hurtful words at her that seemed more painful than any punch, kick, or slap could ever be.

I’d likely hear those words in the back of my mind forever.

I wasn’t able to stop the pain Rimmel endured from her own family, from Zach, and from the people who wanted revenge against her father. And she had Romeo, my best friend, a man I knew without a doubt would shelter her as best he could.

But who did Ivy have?

She was a victim who didn’t even know she was.

I could protect her. I could make sure her pain didn’t have to be any deeper than it already was.

And that’s why I hid the truth. That’s why I beat myself up on a daily basis, wondering if the choice I made was right.

“Is that wine I see over there?” Ivy asked, sniffling a little.

She cried when I told her I didn’t care about Zach. Her tears were just proof that those were words she needed to hear.

“Girl, you know I ain’t gonna drive out to the middle of nowhere for some private time without a bottle of the good stuff,” I drawled and leaned back so I could snag the bottle.

She giggled. “So what kind of
good stuff
is that?”

“Fuck if I know.” I shrugged. “I never drink wine. You know this. I got it from one of the guys on the team.”

“Let me see.” Ivy held out her hand. Her lips were pursed, but I could see her trying hard not to laugh.

I surrendered the bottle so she could pull it into her lap and turn the label around to face her.

Her laugh burst out almost immediately, and she clutched the bottle against her chest as a bad case of the giggles rocked her body.

I frowned. “What the hell’s so funny?”

Ivy laughed even harder, like me not knowing was somehow the cherry on top.

“Blondie,” I growled.

She sat up and wiped a tear out of her eye and cleared her throat. Amusement shone in her eyes when she turned the label around to face me.

“What?” I shrugged.

“It’s Boone’s Farm.”

“Is that like a bad brand or something?”

“Well, we are sort of in a cornfield. It’s actually totes appropriate.”

“
Totes
what?” What the fuck was she talking about?

Her teeth flashed white, and she practically hugged the bottle. “Boone’s Farm I guess is technically a wine. I wouldn’t necessarily call it the good stuff.”

“Why?” I asked dubiously.

“I can’t believe you’ve never heard of this stuff. Every high school girl drinks this.”

“I’m not a high school girl,” I pointed out, sort of disgruntled yet slightly amused.

“Well, surely you went to high school parties. You know the ones where the girls all acted super tipsy even though they smelled like cherry lip-gloss but swore they were drunk.”

I grinned. “Yeah, I remember those days.”

Ivy smacked me.

“What?” I demanded. “You asked.”

“This has barely any alcohol in it.” She snickered. “I didn’t even know they still made this. Where did you even get it?”

Okay, so did me bringing this totally amusing girl drink take away any bonus points I had racked up? Or was she secretly pleased I had the shit?

“I told ya. I got it from one of the guys on the team. I told him I needed something other than beer that my girl would like.” I glanced down at the bottle. “It’s pink. You like pink. I thought it was like that blush-colored wine women drink.”

Ivy laughed again. She pointed to the label. “It’s watermelon flavored.”

I squinted at the label. It said watermelon. I scoffed. “It can’t be that bad. Hand it over.”

She did, and I unscrewed the cap (yet another clue that perhaps this was some cheap-ass shit) and poured it in the two plastic cups Ivy held out.

I took one of the cups and sniffed the contents. It smelled like some bad air freshener you could buy at Wal-Mart that promised to make your car smell great, when what it actually did was make you nauseous. “Fruity.”

Ivy grinned and took a sip. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Try it.”

Oh, what the hell? I’d already forgone my manhood to drink Smurf Balls; this pink shit couldn’t possibly be any worse.

I took a drink, letting the flavor spill across my tongue. I pulled it back and looked down.

Was this supposed to be alcohol or soda?

I guess I could see why they named it watermelon… Okay, no I couldn’t. It didn’t taste like watermelon at all.

It tasted like a giant Jolly Rancher.

“Well?” Ivy asked.

“Too much of this shit might give us diabetes,” I quipped. “I mean, seriously. Did you want some wine with your sugar?”

“Aww, but it’s pink wine!”

I made a rude sound. “The shit I do for you, woman.”

Ivy drank some more of it. I made a face, but oddly, I was thinking about taking another sip too.

“I kinda like it,” she confided.

“Drink up.” I held out my hand like it was a formal invite.

“You just want me to get drunk so you can take advantage of me,” she teased.

My body jerked. “That’s not fucking funny.” My voice was hard and loud.

Ivy sucked in a breath and straightened. All traces of fun were wiped from her features. “I was just kidding. There’s like three percent alcohol in this. I wouldn’t even be drunk if I had the entire bottle.”

I swore under my breath and rubbed a hand over my hair. “I’m sorry. I guess just the suggestion I would ever do something like that to you makes me sick.”

She tucked the cup in her lap and reached out with both hands, laying them on my knees. “I know you wouldn’t, B. I feel safer with you than anyone I’ve ever met. Even Drew.”

I blew out a breath and drank some of the Kool-Aid masquerading as wine.

“You mean that?” I asked. For some reason, that statement meant a lot to me. Almost as much as when she told me she loved me for the first time.

It was like it somehow validated everything I’d done.

“I swear on every single star in the sky,” she spoke, echoing my own words back to me. “I know you would never hurt me, Braeden James Walker. I am safe with you.”

“Bring those fine-ass lips over here, woman.” I opened up one arm. She leaned over, and I tugged her into my lap. She laughed, but I caught the sound with my lips and used my tongue to claim the rest.

She tasted sweet and her tongue was cool. I sucked it farther into my mouth, deepening our kiss. The cup in my hand made it hard to touch her the way I wanted, so I tossed it over the side of the truck. It landed with a barely audibly thud on the grass below.

My hands delved deep into the soft strands of her long hair and got lost, kneading in farther until the tips of my fingers caressed her scalp.

She made a purring sound that vibrated both our tongues, and I groaned.

She pulled back, and my eyes narrowed. I wasn’t done kissing the shit out of her yet. I followed, trying to pull her back, but she shook her head.

“We came here to talk.”

“We talked.” My voice was strained. “And now our bodies want to have a conversation.”

Her smile was slow, and it made my loins tighten. “My body has lots to say to you.”

A groan ripped from deep in my throat. I leaned toward her again, but she leaned away.

“But I actually do have something I want to talk to you about. And judging from the way you almost chewed off my head a minute ago, it’s something we should talk about.”

Have I mentioned I hate words?

I do. Like really.

Still, this was the main reason I brought her out here (I mean, yes, of course I planned on some sex; that’s why I brought so many blankets), so it seemed I should listen to what she had to say.

“That was about your father, wasn’t it?”

All thought of hanky panky time went flying off into the distance.

“Ivy,” I warned. My father wasn’t a subject I liked to talk about.

She held her ground. “You made me talk about
him
when I didn’t want to. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I actually feel better.”

“I’m glad, baby.” My voice gentled.

“So now we’re gonna talk about this. And then you’ll feel better.”

Not bloody likely. “There’s nothing to say, Blondie. My father is scum. He abused my mother half my life until he almost killed her. Now he’s dying and he thinks death should somehow earn him a forgiveness card.”

“So you don’t plan on talking to him at all?” she asked.

“No,” I growled.

“I think you’re wrong.”

I blinked. “What?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You heard me.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Yours. Even when you’re being a giant doody head and are wrong.”

“Did you just call me a giant doody head?”

She nodded. “Mm-hmm.” I opened my mouth, but she lifted her hand. “Why are you so afraid to talk to him, Braeden?”

“I’m not,” I ground out. I was getting all mixed up inside. The darkness and anger deep down was getting all riled up. I didn’t like it. Not at all.

“Is it because you’re afraid that if you do—”

I cut her off. “I will not ever forgive him.”

Her face gentled even though my tone was angry and slightly mean. “That isn’t what I was going to say. I don’t think he deserves your forgiveness, B.”

“You don’t?” Just hearing her say that calmed me down.

“No. I don’t. But I do think you’re afraid if you talk to him face to face, you might see some things in him that remind you of yourself.”

Her words hit their mark.

I didn’t need to sit down beside him to see those things. Sometimes when I looked in the mirror, he was all I saw.

“You’re nothing like him,” she vowed.

“How do you know?” I asked, the words the closest I’d ever come to saying out loud my biggest fear. “You’ve never met him.”

“I don’t need to meet him because I know you. You aren’t capable of that type of violence. You don’t have that mean streak in you.”

“Yes, I am. I do.”

She tilted her head. “Maybe,” she allowed.

Her honesty only helped me. I admired that she didn’t try to sugarcoat everything she said.