SMITH (The Beckett Boys, Book One) (3 page)

They both give reluctant nods and separate, Shep with his tall and skinny girlfriend, the other guy by himself. Good. I don’t have time to deal with this horseshit. Too much on my mind.

Like how my body keeps wanting to turn back toward Aubrey and see what she’s doing. To see those sexy-as-hell legs crossed, with a good portion of her thigh exposed…

Without giving in to the urge, I head down the dim hallway and go out back. The air is thick and muggy tonight, and my skin is instantly slicked with sweat. My hand reaches for my back jeans pocket before I remember my cigarettes aren’t in there. Brilliant idea I had, giving up smoking a couple of months ago.

But Aunt Roselyn wouldn’t stop hounding me about it until I caved just to shut her up.

I rub the nicotine patch on my upper arm, wishing I could roll it up and smoke it, when the door creaks open and Aubrey walks through. She pauses, startled.

“Oh, sorry,” she says shyly. “Is this area employees only?”

Fuck. I sigh. “No, you’re fine. I’m going back inside.”

Aubrey takes a few tentative steps up to me. There’s a softness in her eyes, the haze of alcohol, and I can smell its delicate flavor on her breath. “Um, did I do something to offend you? I mean, at first it seemed like you hated me, and then like you didn’t, and now it feels like it again—”

“I don’t hate you. I don’t even know you.” I keep my voice flat, willing myself to not respond to her body language, her tone. The way she’s leaning toward me, her lips parted, her eyes wide, her breath coming in small pants…she wants me.

And fuck if my body doesn’t instantly respond. My cock jumps to attention, slamming against my zipper. My pulse is a throb in my limbs, and I suck in a deep breath.

“I just…” Her lips thin and she glances at the ground. “It’s… I don’t know how to feel around you. I think you like me and then you act weird. It’s throwing me off.”

Her honesty startles me, silences me. I’ve never met someone as open and blunt as she is. The girl holds nothing back. And it’s magnetic. I can tell where I stand with her, how she feels about me—it’s all over her face, in her body language, pouring through her tone.

She’s attracted to me and struggling over it.

Before I realize what’s happening, I cup the back of her head and tug her to me. The moment my lips press against her, I release a sigh that feels like it’s been in my chest for years, and then I part her lips with my tongue.

She opens to me, eager, pliant, submissive. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I yank her against me, our bodies flush, and she gives herself to me as I plunder her mouth, taste her. She gives a small whimper, her chest heaving, breasts pushing against me.

I’m drawn to her, wrapping my hands around her small waist, aching like fuck to feel her naked skin against mine. My fingers slide of their own volition to her waistband and pull her tiny tank top out from inside her skirt, and then I touch her bare flesh and I moan in her mouth. My dick aches so badly I can barely take it.

“Oh my fucking God,” I mutter. Her skin is like silk, soft and ready for me. I’ve never felt skin so soft. I want to touch her everywhere.

Aubrey whimpers and her body grinds against me in what seems more like an unconscious motion. “Yes,” she breathes against my mouth.

I push my hand under her shirt and grip her upper back, squeeze my fingers to dig into her skin. She grunts and sucks in a deep breath, arching against me. God, yes—

What the fuck am I doing? Making out with a customer in the back of the bar? I draw all my strength and remove my hands from her body, then step back.

Aubrey’s standing there, lips swollen, breath panting, eyes heavily lidded. She’s so innocent but so fucking primed for me. I could probably take her upstairs to my apartment and spread her wide and plunge deep inside her.

But I can’t do that. Because she deserves better than to be one of my random booty calls. I can’t ruin her. The kind of life I lead—it’s not for a girl like her.

Aubrey’s too good for me, and if she doesn’t realize it—I’ll have to help her figure it out.

The thought sobers me, and my cock deflates a little. “This can’t happen,” I make myself say. I see a riot of emotions flash across her face, but I continue. “Go home, sweetheart.” I make myself use the generic endearment instead of her name. I don’t want her to feel like something could happen with us. Because there’s no fucking way it can. “You’re drunk. Sleep it off.”

Aubrey just stares at me for a moment, her chest rising and falling. Her eyes are filled with things I can’t quite interpret. But I see the moment the shutters fall, and I feel the instantaneous pangs of disappointment, despite it being my fault, my intent. She gives a curt nod and without saying a word, spins on her heel and vanishes back into the bar.

I should be relieved.

I should feel like I did something good, something noble and selfless.

Instead, I feel like I cheated myself out of something amazing.

I spend another twenty minutes outside, cooling down, convincing myself that I’m doing the right thing. Clearly she and I would not be good together. She doesn’t seem like the hook-up kind of girl, which is all I’m looking for right now. I can’t give anything else, and I don’t want to. So why make things harder for both of us?

When I go inside, she’s gone, and I spend the rest of the night telling myself I’m not feeling like I lost someone special. Not at all.

M
y head won’t stop
pounding.

I smother a groan, squinting my eyes open, and try to avoid staring at the light pouring in through my bedroom window. My head is a fog, my brain sluggish. At first I can’t quite remember what happened last night.

But the blissful naivety passes all too soon, and then I remember. My stomach sinks with mortification. Fuck.

I groan and tug the covers over my face. Maybe I can just lay here and die, and then I don’t have to face how fucking embarrassing last night was.

How I had the hottest damn kiss of my life…and then he basically pushed me away and told me he didn’t want me, in so many words.

I am the world’s biggest moron. And now I want to jump off a bridge. How did this happen? Smith is a jerk. A jerk and smarmy and rude and so ridiculously hot— Okay, I know how it happened. Because I was so turned on by him that when the moment presented itself, and he grabbed me to kiss me, I practically threw my desperate body on him. Wanting him beyond reason.

I was so turned on last night, I would have done anything he asked me to do.

And then he asked me to go.

And I did. Because I was so embarrassed I wanted to die on the spot.

So much for feeling sexy. I dressed to kill last night, wearing my cutest outfit, ready to show him I was worth paying attention to. And he did, all right. Until he apparently came to his senses and decided I wasn’t what he wanted.

Was I that bad a kisser? I’ve never had complaints before…

And he did seem into it, at first anyway.

I groan again. My life officially sucks.

My cell phone rings. Despite the slight heave in my stomach, I reach my hand out of the blanket and grab it, then check the caller ID. It’s Michaela. The one person who could possibly pull me out of this funk.

Michaela knows me well. Knows everything—the bad and the good about my life and what I’ve been through. I can trust her, and that’s about as rare as it gets in my world right now.

A wave of sheer missing her almost overwhelms me as I answer. “Oh my God, how did you know I needed you right now?” I ask.

“Because I’m psychic, you crazy bitch,” she declares. “How are you doing? You were supposed to call me last night and I didn’t hear from you. I thought you were dead in a ditch or you fell in a well.”

“I only wish that had happened.” Fuck, I hadn’t necessarily meant to say that, but some stupid part of me must want to purge this off my chest. Damn my big mouth.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s not actually that bad,” I admit. “Just vaguely humiliating.”

Michaela’s curiosity is piqued, and once she gets on a scent, there’s no detracting her. “Go on. Tell mama everything.”

Reluctantly, I spill the beans. I talk about meeting Smith my first night, the creeper who hit on me, how Smith punched him, and then our kiss and his rejection. I end with, “And now I’m hung over and feeling like a total moron.”

“Wow.” I can hear the awe in her voice. “When you start over, you really start over.”

“Come on now.”

“No, seriously. I’m so fucking proud of you I could puke. I was afraid that Roger had scared you into never trying again, but here you are, going out there and meeting new people. Do you realize how amazing you are?”

My eyes burn, and I blink back tears. “Oh, shush.”

“You shush, bitch.” But I hear the love in her voice, and I know she’s happy for me. “I’m sure you’re embarrassed, because I know you, but you shouldn’t be. You went out and had a little fun—don’t make it into such a big thing.”

I want to do as she says, but the burn of rejection I feel so strongly still aches my chest. “He told me to go home and sleep it off.”

She laughs “Sounds kind of funny. Were you that drunk?”

“I guess. I don’t know.” I sigh, confused about whether I’ve read too much into the entire thing. It was a flirty, drunken hookup and he was smart enough to admit as much. He probably kisses women like that on a daily basis.

I can’t let myself obsess over it or him any further.

“Are you going to try and see him again?”

My chest sinks. “I doubt it.” I shake my head and do my best to put him out of my mind—which is nearly impossible. “Anyway, tell me everything I’ve missed at work since I’ve been gone.”

Michaela laughs. “Oh shit, you have no idea. Things have been insane this week.”

She and I met at the nursing home we worked at. Michaela was the one who oriented me to life around old people, how to stay on top of the surprising chaos and manage their stubbornness so I could get my job done. Without her help, I never would have got the expertise and confidence to apply for a job at the nursing home in Rock Bridge…and get the job.

Michaela fills me in on the shenanigans that have happened, how Mr. Carter decided he hates pants and refuses to wear them. And Mrs. Carter, his long-suffering wife, keeps begging the nursing staff to help her manage her husband’s nakedness during group activities.

The stories make me laugh and ease the heaviness in my chest. A pang of homesickness hits me. “That’s so funny,” I tell her.

Michaela sighs. “I miss you. You sure this is what you want to do? You know we’d take you back in a heartbeat.”

“I know.” My lungs tighten. “But as long as he’s there, I can’t.”

Michaela is the only person who knew in advance about my escape plan. I hadn’t even told my mom or dad, because they both have soft spots for Roger, not knowing the real him. I was afraid of them spilling the beans to him, and while it hurt that I couldn’t trust them with the truth, I had to do what would protect me.

I still haven’t called them. I’m not even sure they know I’m out of state. But I can’t worry about that right now.

“I selfishly miss you,” she says. “But I’m so ridiculously glad you got yourself out of that situation. Roger’s a psycho asshole. You deserve so much better than him. Maybe this hottie bartender dude will work out.”

I snort. “Right.”

“Hey, you never know.” I hear Michaela mumble something, probably to one of her kids. “Fuck, I gotta go. Brian’s being a little douche and drawing on the bathroom walls.”

“Well, he is your kid,” I prod.

“You shut your sass mouth,” she tells me.

We both laugh and with kisses and goodbyes, hang up. I sit there for a moment, savoring the sound of her voice still echoing in my head, wishing I could be hear her. Michaela was my rock. I miss her painfully. I tell myself I’ll see her again soon, that I’ll have her come visit me. Yeah, my apartment isn’t the best ever, but she doesn’t care.

Maybe she’ll like Rock Bridge.

I sure hope so, because I’m planning to be here for the indefinite future.

* * *

“
M
r. Danvers
, you need to take your medicine,” I coax.

He frowns at me, his brow furrowing with a hundred deep-etched lines. “I don’t need that shit,” he declares.

My first day on the job, and I can’t even get my patients to take their meds. To be fair, I was warned about him, how difficult he was with new staff. I have to take control now, today, or he will run all over me for the rest of my days at this nursing home.

I stiffen my spine and shoot him a stern look. “Your doctor says you need it. I may be new, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Take your medicine, Mr. Danvers.”

He eyes me warily for several long moments. Then he gives a painful sigh and extends his shaky hand. “Fine, but I’m doing this under duress. I want it noted in my files.”

“No problem.” I drop the pills in his hand, and he swallows them. “Have a good evening.”

My last patient, done. As I walk toward the nursing station and finish all the last-minute stuff to prepare the next nursing shift, I stretch my aching back. This nursing home is bigger than the one I left. There must be a lot more older people in Rock Ridge than I realized.

And they all are stubborn…and live in this nursing home.

A challenge, but I’m up to it. My soles ache, and my lower back is one big throbbing muscle pain, but I made it. And I have to admit, I do have a few patients who are awesome and made my first day on the job great.

If this job hadn’t come through, I wouldn’t have been able to leave the apartment Roger and I lived in. Snuck out in the middle of the afternoon while he was at work. That morning I’d gotten a new number assigned to my phone so he wouldn’t be able to find me. My heart had been a furious beating drum for hours until I crossed state lines.

Once I reached Michigan, I was finally able to relax. But even now, when I picture his face, hear his voice in my head, I feel my throat constrict and my stomach aches. My palms sweat and I feel nauseous. Getting away from Roger was probably the bravest, and scariest thing I’ve ever done.

So I don’t really care how hard this job is—I’m staying put. At least for a while.

Thankfully, the nursing home isn’t far from my place. Just under a mile. I lucked out on apartment location—everything I need is within a mile or so walking distance, from work to the store to even a small hair salon. I step into the warm afternoon air and start the stroll toward the grocery store. Last week I stocked up on a few essentials, but I need some stuff for lunch breaks at work. Seems like a good time to do so.

My time in the store is quick; I grab lunchmeat, chips, and juice. While I’m not destitute, I don’t get paid for three weeks, so I want to be savvy on how I’m spending my money. I load the bags into my arms and head toward home.

The blocks pass by in relative quiet. I hear a few kids giggling in the distance, not unexpected for summer break, and find myself smiling. The neighborhood is on the older side but quaint. The houses are brick, with nice lawns and inviting porches. Maybe someday I can save up enough to buy a house of my own.

I wanted a house so badly in the beginning, but Roger put his foot down, saying it was a waste of money for us to do so.

I make myself stop thinking of him. He’s out of my life, irrelevant. It doesn’t matter what he said in the past. He said so much and did so much. What matters now is what I want.

The thought puts a spring in my step. I continue the walk home. When I turn the corner, I see Outlaws a couple of blocks away. The sight of the bar makes my heart trip with mortification. Despite what Michaela said about not taking it so seriously, I’m still dying of embarrassment.

Maybe there is something unattractive about me. Maybe he could sense how fucked up my past is, and he doesn’t want any part in that.

Maybe I’m just not sexy enough.

My mood sinks a little, and I force myself to keep moving forward. It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to look for a guy right now anyway. I’m here to make a new start, without drama, without the fears of my past. I don’t need a man. I need to rely on myself. To know that I am strong and independent. It’s for the best that Smith pushed me away anyway. Because if he hadn’t, I probably would have… God, I probably would have done anything he asked me to.

In that moment, I was so wet, so turned on, I would have given him whatever he wanted.

I approach the next block and see a guy turn the corner and run toward me, shirtless, his tattooed chest gleaming with sweat. I instantly recognize the clipped beard, the spiked hair, the surly face.

Shit.

I draw in a steadying breath and cool my nerves. He probably won’t say anything to me, anyway. He’ll probably just pass me by and—

“Aubrey,” he says as he nears, then stops, barely panting. A small drop of sweat slides down his throat, down his chest, to the waistband of his running shorts, and I find myself leaning toward him and pull back. What the hell is wrong with me?

How does this man evoke such a strong reaction from me? I’m not supposed to want men right now. I’m on a break. For good reason. I don’t need to be attracted to someone who doesn’t even want me, anyway.

I give him a curt nod. “Hey.” My left arm aches with the bags in the crook of my elbow, so I shift them up. “I…have groceries to get home, so…”

He gives me a long look, as if evaluating me. It’s not what I want right now, especially when I know he finds me lacking in some way.

But then, without saying a word, Smith slides the bags out of my arm and into his large hands. “Lead the way,” he says.

“You don’t have to—”

“Lead the way, Aubrey.” There’s no room for argument in his tone. Smith gets what he wants, that much is clear.

And some stupid, ridiculous part of me wants to please him. What the hell is that about? As soon as he gets that tone, that look in his eyes, I find myself snapping to attention, homing in on him, shutting everything else out, pliant and ready to be told what to do. What does that mean?

And I have to admit, I’m so happy that he’s not totally repulsed by me. He didn’t have to stop and say hello, offer to take my groceries. This was all him.

Smith nods toward me, which I take as my cue to go home, so I do. I try to pretend I’m not aware of the sweat dribbling down his chest and neck and back. That I’m not aware of the tattoos covering him. That I’m not aware of the muscles of his arms and legs. I try to pretend my core isn’t tightening in response to his raw sexuality, pretend I don’t want him to drop those bags, push me to the sidewalk, and thrust his hard cock inside me.