Slate (Breaking the Declan Brothers #2) (8 page)

I curl up against his back, wrap my arm around his shaking body, and whisper, “Yes. I’m not going anywhere. I will stay with you for as long as you need me.”

I wake alone in the bed with the sun making an appearance through the small glass-block basement window. I sit up and rub my eyes. Shit! Slate! I jump out of the bed, praying he’s okay and hasn’t passed out somewhere. Or he’s not high out of his mind, crawling the walls and imagining shit. I sigh when I find him standing in front of the apartment-size stove in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He looks over his shoulder. His alert eyes take in every inch of my body then he turns back around. I smell bacon. He’s making breakfast. I’m not sure what’s going on here. Last night he was freaking out, seeing shit, and now, he’s acting as though nothing happened. He seems fine. I guess that it’s all part of being an addict. You learn to adapt. One second, you’re flying high, and the next, you’re back down on the ground.

“Over easy, right,” he says with his back to me.

“You remember.” I pull out a stool at the high nook that separates the kitchen area from the living area and sit down, carefully examining him.

“How could I forget? Every Saturday morning you’d drag my ass out of bed so that we could make it to Granny’s Kitchen for the breakfast special.” He sets some toast on the counter in front of me.

“Hey, there’s nothing like Granny’s homemade hash.” I smile, glad that he’s not still in the land of Oz where I’m not real and he’s hurting boys named Joey. “Remember that time we got there late and you talked her into giving me some anyway.”

“Yeah, her dish washer didn’t show up that morning. I don’t know what I was thinking, offering to do the dishes so that you could get your damn homemade hash. You try washing off dried-up egg yolk from a plate with a hangover. I puked like three times.”

I laugh. “It was sweet.”

He looks up at me from long dark lashes with a grin. “I was a sap.”

“Yeah, but you were a sweet sap,” I say, picking up a piece of toast and taking a bite. He turns back to the stove to flip the eggs. “So…” I swallow the dry toast. “You feel better?”

He doesn’t say anything, but nods his head.

“Do you have any more drugs on you?”

“No,” he says, placing his hands on the counter; his shoulders lift and his head lowers.

“And are there any hidden down here?”

His head lifts, and with his back to me, he shakes his head. “No.”

“Okay, I’m going to trust you,” I say, committing again to my decision to help him. “I’m not leaving, Slate. We have two more days, so get it together.”

He turns around and places a plate of perfect eggs with a side of bacon in front of me. “Eat,” he says, brushing his hands together. He looks up from the plate and stares at me for a quiet moment. “Want some orange juice? I think there’s some in the fridge, or there’s coffee.”

“Coffee, please.” I smile, glad he’s ready and willing to give this another shot.

“Oh-ho, look at you, all grown up,” he teases. “You like coffee, now?”

“Yes, I do.” I tilt my head, grinning. “In fact, I do all kinds of grown-up stuff now.”

“Huh, I’d like to see some of those grown-up things.”

“Yeah, I bet you would.” My cheeks flush with heat. “But it was Emmie who got me hooked on coffee when she moved in with me in Manhattan. And now, I can’t live without it.”

“Milk,” he asks again with his back to me while pouring my coffee.

“Just a splash,” I say.

He reaches in and pulls the milk out of the fridge. “Manhattan, huh? What were you doing there?” With slightly shaky hands, he pours the milk in my coffee and comes over to the nook carrying two coffee mugs. I watch the shaking mugs and realize that he’s not as calm as he’s portraying. He’s fighting the withdrawals and trying real hard to hide it.

“Working.” I apprehend the coffee as he hands it to me and then take a sip of the steamy liquid.

“Yeah?” He sets his mug down. “At which school?”

“Oh, no, I’m not doing that type of social worker stuff anymore. I was working as a mediator at a divorce attorney’s office. I’d act as the go-between for the divorcees.”

“Really?” His brow lifts as he settles on a stool.

“Yeah, I love it.” My eyes roam his body, the muscles rippling under his t-shirt quickening my pulse. His biceps and tatts bulge from the cut of his sleeves. At least he’s not trying to hide his scars from me any longer. I want to ask him about last night, ask who Joey is, but he’s actually being nice. He’s acting a little like the old Slate, and I don’t want to push it.

He picks up his mug. His forearm muscles ripple as he takes a swig of his coffee. Damn. He’s all grown up now too, and for as messed up as he is, he’s still able to pull off gorgeous and prevailing. “So, you’re not married,” he casually asks. I shake my head, surprised that he’s interested in knowing. “Got a fiancé, boyfriend, or anyone waiting back in Manhattan for you?”

“No. I just ended a two-year relationship and quit my job; there’s nothing at all waiting for me in Manhattan except my apartment.”

“What happened,” he sets his mug down, “with the guy?”

“I don’t know. He asked me to marry him, but,” I shrug, “my heart just wasn’t in it.”

He looks at me for a second with an expression I can’t figure out. “And the job?”

“Well,” I swirl my finger along the edge of my coffee cup, “the
guy
was one of the lawyers at the law firm I worked at, and I thought it best to leave them both behind. But,” I look up, “I have an interview next week in Santa Fe for a mediator job, and that’s what I really want to do. I’m going to see what happens.”

“You’re going to move back here,” he says, and I hear the slight hitch in his voice.

“I’m gonna check it out, and like I said, there’s nothing but an apartment waiting for me back in Manhattan. Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I had something earlier.”

“Oh,” I say, my eyes dropping to his mouth as I recalled him kissing me yesterday. My knees had nearly given out with that kiss. It wasn’t familiar, as I’d imagined it might be. It was different, hungry and taking, not sweet and gentle. But like our first kiss, those damn butterflies found their way back to my belly.

“Oh, come on! You can throw harder than that,” I say catching the ball.

A wily grin spreads across Slate’s mouth. “I don’t want to hurt your girlie hand.”

“You won’t.” I whip the baseball back to him, and he easily catches it.

“Hey, Grams wanted me to ask if you’re coming over for dinner Saturday,” he says, tossing the ball up in the air and then catching it in his mitt.

Since Jamison’s death, home hasn’t been the same. My parents are either arguing or not speaking at all. So, I’m rarely there. I hang out at Slate’s or Emmie’s, weekends mostly at Slate’s seeing as Emmie’s mom usually has some kind of event or pageant scheduled for her. “I don’t know.” I shrug.

He stops playing with the ball and looks at me. “What? You got something else going on?”

“Well,” I set my glove on my hip, “Timmy Baxter did ask me out to the movies.”

Slate’s face scrunches up. “Like on a date?”

“I think so,” I say with a grimace.

“And what are you going to do at the movies?”

“Watch it, and maybe kiss,” I say, knowing that’s what most couples do at the movies.

“Kiss!” His eyebrows lift. “Have you ever kissed a boy before?”

“No.” I look down, kicking some dirt on the ground with my sneaker, suddenly feeling weird talking about this with Slate.

“But you want to kiss Timmy Baxter?”

“I don’t know.” I glance up at him. “Maybe.”

He walks over to me. “Show me.” He drops his glove on the ground.

“Show you what?”

“How you’re gonna kiss Timmy Baxter.”

“You want me to kiss you?”

“Yeah.” He lifts his hand. “Here, show me on my hand.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Don’t you want to know if you’re doing it right?” He shoves his fist closer to my face. “Go on.”

Never backing down from a challenge presented by Slate, I grab his balled hand and pull it up to my mouth. I close my eyes and press my lips against his warm skin. Opening my eyes, he’s curiously watching me. “Not too bad.” He drops his hand. “Now, let me show you how a boy’s supposed to kiss you.”

“Okay.” I go to thrust out my hand, but he grabs it, yanks me against him, and lowers his head. He’s going to kiss me on the…
Wow!
His lips touch mine and those dormant butterflies come swarming into my belly. He pulls away with a smile. “And if he tries to stick his tongue in your mouth, knee him in the balls.”

“You kissed me!”

“Ah, it was just a peck.”

“It was a kiss! Ow…I should knee you in the balls.”

“What, you didn’t like it?”

“You’re a jerk, Slate Declan.” I whack him in the chest with my glove. “I thought you were going to kiss my hand, too!”

“Your hand is all dirty. Besides, I wanted to be sure I had gotten there before anyone else did.”

“Got where,” I ask, and a smile ruffles his mouth. What is he talking about? He’s not making any sense, and darn it, my lips are still tingling where his mouth touched me. “I’m going home!”

He starts laughing.

“Jerk!” I stomp away.

“Hey, Rayna,” he calls after me, still laughing.

I flip around with a snarky, “What?”

“Have fun on your date Saturday.”

Three days later, when Slate opens his door with that stupid grin on his face, I could kick myself for coming.

“Thought you were going to the movies tonight with Timmy Baxter?”

“He took Cathy Miller.”

He scowls, shaking his head. “Listen, I’m only going to tell you this once,” he says, resting his hand on the doorframe. “Some boys will keep it, some will break it, and some boys, they just won’t want it. You gotta be careful who you give your heart to.”

“It was just the movies!”

“That’s how it all starts.” He chuckles, dropping his arm from the door and resting it on my shoulders. “Come on, monkey.” He leans in, and normally I wouldn’t think twice about how close he is to me, but since we kissed, something feels different. “Grams is making your favorite, chicken pie.”

I’m not sure what happened last night after I slipped that LSD under my tongue. I’d taken half of it a few months earlier, and I had a real bad trip. Junkies don’t know how to throw out drugs, so I hid it in the cupboard in case I ever needed it. Last night, I needed it, and again, it fucked me up. I vaguely remembered being in the shower, I dreamed about Joey, and I woke up with Rayna on top of me. She had one arm resting on my stomach and a long slender leg draped across my scarred thigh with her long dark hair fanned out on my chest. It brought me back to the days when we were together. I loved the feel of her soft skin against mine. I loved the way she smiled. The way she called me her Superman, and the way her eyes lit up when I called her my little monkey. She was a monkey, swinging fearlessly from one branch to the next. Nothing kept the girl stagnant; she moved with beautiful grace, courageously grasping onto any and everything that she wanted.

She’s the same, but I’ve changed. I’m no longer her Superman and sweet kisses don’t cut it for me anymore. And while I laid there in nothing but a pair of boxers with a screaming hard-on, all I wanted was to roll over, spread her shapely legs, and sink my cock deep inside her. I loved the girl in her but all I want to do is fuck the woman she has grown into hard. And right before I leave this den, I will. But I’m smart enough to know that I can’t do it now, and then spend the next two days with her. But the longer I do stay down here, the greater chance I have of finding that girl I did love and falling for her all over again. Rayna deserves better than that. She deserves better than me. So, I thought it best to get out of the bed before my dick took over.

During breakfast, she asked how I was doing. I can only imagine what went down last night. Being high on LSD and going through withdrawals is one dangerous cocktail. The last time I tried to get clean, I turned over a desk in my counselor’s office. The time before that, I put a chair through the window at the rehab facility. They had to ship me off to the hospital, where they tied me down and sedated me.