Strum Your Heart Out (16 page)

His grip slips. He grabs onto my hand. "You're the only person I tell anything."

"What about Vivian? There must be a reason why I never hear a word about her."

"Because it's not important."

"Bullshit."

I back into the house. He's still staring at me with the same look he had in the kitchen that day: sad and angry and utterly confused by his own reaction.

"You're my best friend, Kara."

"But that doesn't give you the right to my feelings." It's dark, but I can just make out the stairs. I stumble over something. Stupid heels. I brush myself off and climb the first step. "They're mine. I don't care how much you want to hear them or how much you want to know every part of me. You don't get to unless I say so."

"Kara."

I rush up the stairs and into my room. I press my back into the closed door, sink to my ass, and hug my knees.

That awful heavy feeling spreads from my chest to my stomach and shoulders and hips. And then it overtakes me completely.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I was never one of those kids who was afraid of the dark. I never worried there was something lurking under the bed or in the closet.

I loved the dark.

The older I got, the more people expected from me, the more I loved it. It's this beautiful blanket of invisibility. No one can see the expression on my face. There's no reason why I need to smile or nod or even hold together some semblance of calm.

In the dark, in my bed, under the comfort of my so aptly named comforter, I can frown or cry or weep until my throat is ragged and sore.

No one sees me.

No one expects anything from me.

No one looks at me like I'm a poor, unfortunate soul.

But, right now, I hate the dark.

I hate my room.

I hate my bed.

And it's all because Drew is somewhere outside my door.

We're in the same house but we're eight million miles apart.

And for some strange reason I want him looking at me, expecting something from me, listening to me.

I want him to understand.

I want him to love me, even with the ugly scars.

CHAPTER TWENTY

An hour passes. A door across the hallway opens and shuts. There are footsteps heading down the stairs and out the front door.

Drew's car turns on and pulls onto the road. God knows where he's going at this time of night.

If he's ever coming back.

If he's ever speaking to me again.

I brush my teeth and change into my pajamas. Then it's back into the not-at-all comforting embrace of my bed.

It's so cold in here.

It's so empty.

I toss and turn, not really attempting to sleep or think or do anything but breathe.

Even that is difficult.

Another hour passes.

Another.

The street goes dead quiet. It's closer to morning than it is to night. God knows I should be asleep. God knows how I'm going to make it through my homework tomorrow.

A car pulls onto the street. Then into our driveway. It stops. Turns off. A moment later, the front door opens and slams shut.

Drew.

His footsteps move up the stairs. They're steady. Not rushing. Not hesitating. Just coming.

There's a soft knock on my door.

I hug my comforter a little tighter. For a split second, I consider throwing it over my head and pretending I'm asleep.

But this awful pang in my stomach won't allow it.

"Come in," I say.

The door opens with a quiet creak. There's a footstep and then the door is pressed shut again.

I keep my back to Drew and my eyes on the window. There isn't much to see besides the sky. It's nearly black. No stars. There's too much light pollution.

He sits on the bed behind me. His fingertips brush over the side of my cheek. "Hey."

"Where did you go?"

"To think."

"You need to hop in your car to think?" I ask.

He shifts closer. "When it's about you." He lies on the bed behind me. "And even that only helps so much."

I hug the blanket to my chest.

"I didn’t ditch you in high school because you weren't cool." He moves closer. "I got caught up in the attention. Stopped trying to hang out. When I saw you around, you never seemed like you wanted to talk to me. I should have thought about how much you were going through, but I was a stupid kid, and I was distracted by my parents getting divorced."

"That was around when my dad got sick, wasn't it?"

"Hard to remember exactly. They fought constantly. It was a long time coming. But after... shit happened with Willow." He tenses, like he can't stand the memory of what happened with his sister. "I won't betray her trust but it snapped me out of my bullshit. By then, you had new friends. You seemed better off without me."

"How could I be better off without you? Drew I... don't you realize how much you mean to me?"

He runs his fingertips over my shoulder. "I didn't. Not then. I didn't appreciate how lucky I was. You were the only person I ever trusted besides my sister. You still are."

"What about Vivian?" I say her name like it's some disgusting food.

"That was different. Messed up." He's quiet for a moment. "It's not an interesting story."

"It's interesting to me." I shift so my back is pressed against his chest. The second our bodies come into contact, I feel warm and safe. It's the same sense of freedom I get from the dark.

I can stomach Drew seeing me, really seeing me.

And I want to see him too.

"You can admit she broke your heart," I say.

"I'm not good with relationships, Kara. I can't even fuck a girl without fucking her up." He drags his fingertips over my neck. "I don't want to do that to you too."

"You're a little late for that."

"I don't want to hurt you." His voice gets low. "But I can't stop touching you. I can't stop talking to you. I can't stop being around you."

This warmth builds in my body, but there's something off about it. This is no confession of love. It's not even some high school request to make things official, so we're really boyfriend/girlfriend.

It's nothing.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask.

He exhales so slowly. He drags his fingertips down my arms and hips. No answer, I guess. Or maybe this is the answer.

Drew wants me enough to throw out all those concerns of hurting me. I don't know whether to be flattered or offended.

"Is that really it?" I ask. "Or do you not want to get hurt?"

"I drove for two hours straight and the only thing I could think about was how badly I want you." He hooks his thumbs into my pajama bottoms. "All of you."

I open my mouth to ask for an explanation, but I can't force the words out. They'll only confuse me more. The truth is, I feel the same.

I can't think straight.

I can't think anything but
I want Drew.
All of him. Whatever that means.

He runs his thumbs over the waist of my pajamas. His lips press into my neck.

I want Drew.

All of him.

Whatever that means.

He tugs at my pajama pants and pulls them off my ass. All the way to my knees.

My head is swimming, but common sense has no chance next to the desire rushing through my body.

I kick off my pajamas and rub my body against Drew's. He's strong and warm.

He runs his fingertips over my outer thigh, starting at my knee and working his way up. His fingers graze one of my scars. His touch is soft and gentle. There's no sign he's repulsed.

He presses his body into mine. "When was the first time?"

"It was the day my parents told me about the diagnosis." I trace the light scar in my right wrist. "They were both so scared and so sad. They looked at me like they were worried I'd be scared and sad too, like it would kill them if I wasn't sweet and bubbly anymore."

I take Drew's hand and bring it to my wrist. He runs his fingertips over the line of one scar after another. Until he's felt all of them.

My body fills with the strangest warmth. It's something more than lust or friendship. Something pure and deep and impossible to ignore.

I try anyway.

I close my eyes. I arch my back to press my ass against his crotch. I turn my head to press my neck against his cheek.

But that feeling won't go away.

"And?" he asks.

"And I stayed their rock. I nodded and told them it would be okay, that I could cook dinner, and clean the house, and walk to school instead of getting a ride. I sat there with a smile on my face for the rest of dinner while they explained everything that might go wrong, that my dad might not have that much time left. They kept looking at me like they were waiting for me to break. Like it would kill them if I did."

He runs his fingers over the scars on my wrist.

"And I did. But I waited until I was in my room. I was scared and angry, but I couldn't manage to cry or scream." I push through my discomfort. "I locked myself in the bathroom and broke my compact mirror on the ground. When I was cleaning up the mess, I nicked my arm. It hurt like hell, but there was something so relieving about that. It took me out of that awful sense that my dad was going to die. I tried it again, on purpose. The pain made me feel like I was in control."

Drew slides his arm around my waist and holds me tight. "How does it feel?"

"You have plenty of tattoos. It's like that. It hurts but there's something exhilarating about it. It's like all the awful feelings inside me pour out with the blood." I play with the fabric of the sheets. "I know it sounds grotesque, but—"

"I get it." He runs his fingertips over my hips. "I've had plenty of nights like that."

"Tell me about them."

"Another time." He drags his fingertip over one of the scars on my thighs. His voice is strained. "When was the last time?"

"Before I moved to LA."

"If you ever want to do it again, you call me first."

"I won't." I hug my arms against my chest. "I'm damaged enough already."

He traces another scar. A deeper one. "Everyone is damaged."

"Not like this. Not this ugly."

Drew presses his lips into my neck. "There are no ugly parts of you." He slides his hand over my inner thighs. "Every part of you is beautiful."

His fingertips pass over dozens of scars. Even in the dark, they stand out. They're raised and rough and harsh.

He moves his hand to my other leg and traces a line from the inside of my knee all the way to the edge of my panties. He touches every scar with tender care, like he's committing them to memory. His fingers are rough, calloused, but his touch doesn't hurt. It's sweet. Gentle.

His breath catches. His hips shift, so his crotch is pressed against my ass.

He's hard.

I let out a sharp gasp.

Drew laughs. "You didn't believe me."

My cheeks burn. The heat spreads to my neck and chest. All the way to my stomach and thighs. And then it collects right between my legs.

He's not turned off.

He's not running away scared.

He's hard.

He pulls the strap of my tank top off my shoulders. I'm not wearing a bra. I never sleep in a bra.

Drew cups my breast. He brings his lips to my ear and sucks gently. "More than beautiful." He swirls his finger against my nipple. His breath strains. "Sexy as fuck."

"That's poetic."

"Thank you." He nips at my ear. "I go out of my fucking mind thinking about touching you."

He rubs my nipple harder. A pang of pleasure shoots through me. I let out a low groan.

"You're never been eaten out, have you?" he asks it without a hint of shyness.

I bite my lip to keep from blushing. "Never."

Drew presses his lips into my neck. "So that makes me your first."

He kisses his way to my chest and sucks on my nipples. Harder and harder until I'm ready to scream. I buck my hips.

He pushes my tank top to my waist.

He kisses the skin between my breasts.

Then just under it.

My eyes close. I move my hands to the sheets and brace myself. Touching my scars is one thing, but he's going to be face to face with them.

My body is screaming at me to ignore the apprehension growing in my chest. Somehow, Drew's lips are even better than his hands. It shouldn't be possible for one person to be blessed with such talents, but he is.

He pushes the tank top down to my hips, all the way to my knees. It meets my pajama pants and he pulls both off my feet.

"Drew, I..." I take a deep breath. That heavy feeling is still right there on top of my chest.

"I'm going to go out of my fucking mind if you ask me to stop."

"Don't stop." I like the way those words feel on my tongue, but my heart is still pounding against my chest. "The scars are... they're ugly."

He grabs my knees and pins them to the bed. "Take that back."

"They are."

His voice gets low, deep, desperate. "Everything about you is sexy." He lowers himself so he's right between my thighs. He presses his lips into the skin just above my knee. "Even your scars."

I swallow hard.

"I'm still waiting to hear you agree."

"Not happening."

Drew kisses me again, a little higher, a little closer. "You're lucky I've been dreaming about you coming on my face."

"Is that right?"

"Or else I would never let you get away with this bullshit." He plants a soft kiss on the inside of my thigh. "You're going to admit it."

"Fat chance."

He kisses his way up my thighs until his lips are two inches away from my sex. I lose any interest in making or hearing comebacks. I lose any concern over what he thinks of my scars.

There's only one thing on my mind.

I need Drew.

Now.

Drew wraps his hands around my inner thighs and pins me to the bed. He flicks his tongue against the space where my crotch and my leg meet.

So, so close to where he needs to be.

His fingers trail over my inner thighs. Over my scars, sure, but it doesn't bother me. All that apprehension is gone.