#Superfan (8 page)

***

The desire doesn’t waver. Not when I step out of his car in the lot at our apartment complex. Not once he follows me inside my apartment. And not when he watches me chug a glass of ice water.

A droplet drifts over the edge of the glass and down my chin, leaving an icy chill in its wake as it glides down the front of my dress. He watches the movement from the other side of the bar. I wipe my mouth off with the back of my hand and shed Eight’s jacket. It puddles around my heels, which I kick off within moments.

Eight finally averts his eyes from the tightness of my dress. His jaw tightens and he swallows.

“What?” I ask.

Eight scrubs his face and shakes his head. "Were you going to that club?”

The question throws me off guard. Of the millions of things he could ask me, why that?

“Isn’t it obvious?” I gesture to myself then turn and refill my glass with water, my own jaw flexing. Why should I answer him? He gives me nothing to work with, and he lives a secret life behind that apartment door. “You were invited. Remember?”

“Of course I remember. I just … I’ve never seen you looking like this.”

“Is there something wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

Eight regards me for a long moment before answering. “Doesn’t suit you.”

“Really, it’s none of your business.”

He nods. “You’re right; it’s not.”

For some reason, this pisses me off. I swallow the water to drown the words threatening to spew. One thing I’ve learned in life, you can’t take back an insult once it’s been flung. That little statement of condemnation lives forever in the universe, chiseling away at a person’s soul. I finish off the glass and dump it in the sink. My face feels flat. My soul feels flat. I lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted.

“You don’t have to stay.”

Eight’s brow furrows. “When you called me you said the doc—”

“I don’t care what the doctor said.” Hysteria grips my throat, strangling me and my words. “I want you out.”

Eight shakes his head. “No.”

“Get out of here.” I round the bar and push him, surprising both of us with the action. I’m not a physical person. I’ve never pushed or hit another person in my entire life, but tonight I can’t handle him. I can’t handle what happened earlier, can’t handle wanting a man who’ll never let me inside.

“I’m not leaving.” Eight shrugs off my hands and picks up the stack of stapled papers from the bar. “But
you
will if you don’t stop pushing me.” He points at the paper. “Abnormal behavior is on this list. Maybe I should call 911.”

“Maybe you should kiss my ass.”

I skulk away into the bathroom, slam the door behind me, and sink down to the tiled floor. The headache from earlier has made a full return, and there’s not a thing I can do about it. Not when my ibuprofen is in the other room.

Instead of crying about my problems like I’ve done the majority of the night, I take a long, hot shower. Careful to avoid the bandage on my forehead, I scrub my hair with my best-smelling shampoo. Part of me wishes him gone when I step out of the steamy bathroom with nothing but a towel between us. The other part of me is happy he stayed.

He gazes at me from his perch on a bar stool, his eyes widened at the sight of my bare shoulders and wet hair curled around them. I don’t even care that I’m a blotchy-skinned mess, because he’s not looking at me like I’m a mess. He’s looking at me like I’m everything.

“If you want to stay and monitor my health, that’s fine.” I attempt to roll my eyes, but it’s like they’re glued straight ahead. “But you’ll have to do it in my bedroom. If I don’t lie down—”

I wobble on my feet, punctuating the exact way I feel. Rushing forward, he wraps one arm around me and guides me into my bedroom.

Eight’s warm breath on my naked shoulder raises my flesh. “Let me take care of you, Alex.”

The way he says my name keeps me from caring that he’s entered a room no other guy has entered, or that he sees me for what a
The Hunted
fanatic I really am.

He pauses in the doorway of my bedroom and looks around for a second before helping me to my bed. If he’s alarmed by the bobble heads and framed photographs or my Ayden Vaughn pillowcase, he doesn’t show it.

“Too much,” he says, flipping over the pillow before laying me down on the bed.

Okay, maybe I was wrong.

“He’s pretty, isn’t he?” I grin, and he frowns in response. “Does it chip away at your self-confidence? It shouldn’t, Eight. You’re much prettier.”

Eight stands stock still while I stretch out on the bed. A rush of coolness flitters along my chest and belly. He lets out a low curse. His hands grasp at my towel, now loose over my body.

“What’s wrong, Eight? Never seen boobs before?”

Eight swallows, grappling with the towel. “Yeah, but not yours. You look … better than I imagined. And believe me, I’ve imagined. Night after night.”

That stuttering heart of mine surges faster with the brush of his fingers against my breasts as he tries and fails to cover me with the damp towel.

He’s thought of me intimately. He imagined me
naked
.

Someone else lives inside me. Someone who isn’t nerdy and socially awkward. Someone beautiful. I’m still blaming the near-death experience, or maybe the pain medication the nurse gave me before I left the hospital. Either way, she’s here. She’s not the angry girl who wanted him gone less than an hour ago, and she’s not me, but she pretends to be me. She turns over in the bed, further exposing herself to the guy next door, and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t buckle at the knees.

One hand finds its way into his messy hair. He turns away and turns back, gazing from my face to my naked flesh and back again. An internal war rages inside his head. I know, because one rages inside mine.

Cover yourself.

No, pull him into bed.

The second voice belongs to the stranger within. She wins the war by reaching for his hand. His palm is sweaty, but he’s complacent, allowing me to place his open palm over my right breast.

“Alex.”

His voice is a struggle, but his fingers don’t fight against his willpower. They give in to his desires. I reach for the waistband of his jeans, dipping one finger inside and bringing him closer to the bed. The headache is still there, throbbing away, but I feel no pain.

Nothing hurts anymore.

#chapterseven

I’ve never been quick to want someone before, but nearly dying without a chance to show Eight exactly how I feel about him makes me desperate. Makes me wanna do some things …

“Alex.” His voice is a broken, desperate plea.

My fingers are on his belt buckle, and his fingers are on my hand. He pushes it away and joins me on the bed. The mattress shifts under his weight, and the movement sends my head spinning.

“As much as I want whatever you’ll give me, I know you’re not thinking clearly.” He’s successful in covering me this time, pulling the duvet up to my chin. “I don’t want to be one of your regrets.”

Reaching up, I touch his face. The scruff has grown more since the last time I saw him. “You could never be one of my regrets.”

Smiling, he draws in a deep breath and releases it through his nose. Shoulders relaxing, he kicks off his boots and lies down beside me. We rest side by side, face to face, neither of us talking for a moment. His legs are on top of the covers, his knees brushing mine. He takes my hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing my palm.

“Maybe it’s the drugs, but I think I’m in like with you.”

Chuckling, Eight intertwines his fingers with mine. “I don’t think it’s the drugs, because I’m clean and sober and I feel the exact same way.”

Doubtful. “You were in a long term relationship not too long ago.”

Eight’s smile softens. His eyelashes are so long. “Yeah, but I never felt like this.”

My mind is growing heavy. Foggy and dense. The weight of my eyelids might as well be the weight of the world. They droop, droop, droop. He nudges me awake and I groan.

“No dozing off,” he reminds me.

“The doctor didn’t say I couldn’t sleep,” I say. “I’m tired, and you look tired. Let’s take a nap.”

“I am tired,” he admits. “You woke me from a dead sleep.”

Guilt consumes me. “I’m sorry. You were the only person I could think of when Madi wouldn’t answer. I shoulda let the doc admit me for observation.”

“Don’t ever apologize for needing me. There’s nowhere I’d rather be tonight than here in this bed, wrapped up in you.”

Palm to palm, he leans forward on the pillow. Leans forward until our noses touch. His breath is familiar to me now, warm and smooth with a hint of mint. Our lips brush, not for the first time, but this time is different.

Head swimming, I press my lips more firmly against his. He pulls his mouth away, only to return again. His tongue wets my bottom lip. I take it into my mouth, touching his tongue with my own. I’m dizzy everywhere. Dizzy in my head, in my heart. Drowning alive by the way he kisses me.

“My favorite food is ice cream,” he mumbles against my lips, smiling at my surprised expression. “Don’t look at me like that. You want in or not?”

In. Definitely in.
“What flavor?”

“Chocolate. What else is there?”

“There’s strawberry.” I kiss his lips. “Caramel praline. Birthday cake. Vanilla.”

“Chocolate chip, chocolate chip mint, fudge marble, chocolate chip cookie dough.” He kisses me with each breath, with each spoken word.

“Lavender honey. Rose.”

Eight wrinkles his nose. “Now you’re getting all weird on me.”

I laugh, but it’s short lived. Eight’s stare turns serious. I know whatever he’s about to say won’t be said lightly.

“I grew up on a farm.”

“Really?” I study his face, trying to imagine Eight as a farmhand.

“It wasn’t just a farm, it was several farms.” Eight releases my hand and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Large families of farmers living in a self-sustaining community.”

No photos on his walls or shelves.
“Oh my God. You were Amish, weren’t you?”

Eight snorts. “No, not Amish, but close. We had electricity, indoor plumbing. Hell, even the internet. But it was monitored, only used for research purposes. Our electricity, our food, everything came from us. We used solar panels. We farmed by hand. No fossil fuels. Not if we could help it.”

“So, more like a hippie commune?”

Eight grins. “You know, I can see where you’d think that, except I had a strict religious upbringing. No free love. No free to be you and me kind of atmosphere at all.”

“Is your family still there?”

“I suppose.” His voice is soft. “But I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen them in years. Since I was a teenager.”

Years. I feel guilty if I don’t force myself to see my folks more than every couple months. “Do you miss them?”

“Every second of every day.”

“Why don’t you go back?”

Eight’s gaze leaves the ceiling and finds my eyes. “It’s complicated. I’d love to see my family, but they wouldn’t exactly welcome me with open arms. I’ve been shunned.”

“Shunned?” The
Scarlet Letter
pops into my mind. “What’d you do, sleep with a married woman?”

I laugh, but he doesn’t join in. Swallowing my giggles, I grow silent, my cheeks heated. An emptiness hangs in the air as I wait for a response.

“No, not a married woman, but you’re not far off the mark.” Eight bites the corner of his lip, his eyes fixated on nothing. “You have to imagine what it was like for us. Studying during the day, working on the farm until dark. Most days we were all so tired we’d fall asleep after supper. But some nights we were restless. It was a stifling existence. We were looking for something new, something different.

“Her father caught us.” Eight purses his lips. “Caught us together in the barn. We thought our lives were over.” He laughs. “And in some ways they were. The life I always knew had ended, but on the other hand, I didn't truly start to live until after I left. Until they made me leave.”

“They banished you? For having sex? Did ya bang the preacher’s kid or something?”

Eight snorts. “Nah, nothing like that. She was another restless kid like me.” He meets my eyes, head tilted slightly to one side. “In their world they believed sex and love came hand in hand.”

“It's a romantic concept.”

Eight arches his eyebrows. “Is that what you believe? You should love the person you sleep with?”

His body is warm, and the sex talk makes all my little nerve endings hum, but the tingles die down with an unexpected bubble of sadness pressing against my chest from the inside out. The emotion is so enormous, so overpowering, I wonder if he can feel it.

“I wouldn't know.”

His eyes widen. “You’ve never had sex?”

I giggle at the astonishment on his face. “No, I mean, yes. I’ve had sex. What I meant to say is I’ve never been in love.”

Eight’s features yield relief. “You’ve only had sex with guys you’re in like with, huh?”

I shift on the bed, cocooning myself in the duvet. “Nope. Not even that. I’ve only had sex with guys I’ve found tolerable.”

That signature cocky smile of his teases the corners of his lips. “So that means I’ve still got a chance?”

Scowling, I turn onto my back and move over a couple inches, away from his warmth. Hiding my smile behind the frown grows more difficult the longer he grins at me. The dizziness in my head has simmered away, along with the dull headache. My mind races with the past he’s shared with me.

“Finish the story.”

Sighing, Eight sits up, propping a pillow between his back and the headboard. “Where was I?”

One corner of my mouth curls up. “Banging some chick in the barn?”

“Thanks,” he grumbles, clearing his throat. “Like I said, her father caught us in the barn. He sent her home, and dragged me back to my house by my ear. It was late, well past midnight. The house was dark. My brothers and sisters were all asleep—”

I glance at him. “How many? Brothers and sisters?”

Eight wets his bottom lip. “Two of each. Probably sounds like a lot of kids, but we were one of the smallest families in the community. I’m the oldest of my siblings.”

I nod for him to continue.

“He banged on the door. Woke everyone up inside. My father was the first one to the door, and my mother soon followed.” Eight’s eyes drift into a faraway land of thought. “You know, looking back, I can’t remember my father’s face as Mr. Morgan explained what happened. But I can remember the paleness of my mother’s skin, the disappointment in her eyes as Mr. Morgan voiced concern over his daughter’s loss of virtue. Virtue.” Eight laughs, thumping his head against the headboard. “Damn virtue means everything to those people.”

“He made you look like a monster?”

“He made me look like a monster,” Eight confirms. “There was no persuasion on my part. Hell, none on hers. We were just two bored kids enjoying a hot summer night, but the consequences of that summer night …”

Pulse racing, I ask the one question pricking the forefront of my mind. “You got her pregnant? You got her pregnant and they kicked you out of the community?”

Eight blinks, shaking his head. “No, but I might as well have. The man demanded I marry his daughter. He thought word would get around and no one would want her. Family is important to the members of the community. If a girl has a bad reputation, she’s less likely to find someone willing to marry her.”

“What happened?”

Eight shrugs. “I said no. And so here I am years later, banished from my family home. Banished from the community. You know what’s weird about the situation?”

“What?”

Eight’s heartbreak is written all over his face. “When I was a kid all I dreamt about was leaving home. Now that I’m an adult all I dream about is going back.”

Eight draws in a deep breath and releases it in one drawn-out sigh. I sit up in bed, paying extra attention to keeping my boobs covered. Shimmying up next to him, I lay my head on his shoulder. He works his arm around me, his fingers grazing my bare back. With one hand on my naked hip, he pulls me closer.

“I think you should go back,” I say close to his ear. “And take me with you.”

He turns, his nose bumping into mine. We stare wide-eyed at one another until he makes a bold move forward, his open mouth touching mine.

I give him my all in the kiss. Lips, tongue, teeth, heart, and soul. He doesn’t know it, but he’s got it all. When we part we’re breathless and overheated … and tired.

I fall asleep against him, duvet forgotten, his arms around my naked body, our legs tangled together in a fit of sheets. And when I wake up, I’m alone, no sign he was ever here.

For the duration of one long Saturday, I’ll wonder if he ever really was.

***

Eight doesn’t check on me Saturday at all. In fact, his apartment is super quiet. No closing doors. No shuffling of feet. I know this because I take my garbage out—twice—and kind of linger in the hallway pretending to tie a loose shoelace—twice—waiting on him to poke his head out of his apartment. But there’s nothing. And I wonder if he’s gone, if his buddy or whomever is gone. I wonder if he still plans on having Sunday lunch with me and my family. But most of all I wonder why he left me cold in my bed.

Alone in my apartment, I fall into old habits, Tweeting an unresponsive Ayden about my woes in life.

@therealAydenVaughn, what kinda guy takes care of a girl then doesn’t check in? #superfan

All the wondering leaves my temples pounding. Eight and the added stress of tracking down my car, calling the insurance company, and struggling to remember if what looked like a minor—jarring, yet minor—fender bender left some majorish damage.

Madi calls around noon, kicking up a fuss and wanting to come over. I explain I’m not feeling up to par and it’s the truth. Thankfully the night at the club seems to have helped with the lull in her and Logan’s relationship, if her naughty giggles and his muffled innuendos in the background are any indication. I let her go before I throw up what little breakfast I ate.

I wake up early, but not so bright, on Sunday morning. Three missed texts light up my screen when I hit the home button. Anticipation sends me into overdrive, especially when I see Eight’s name on each missed text, questioning what time I should expect him this morning. Jittery from him, and from thoughts of him meeting my parents, I shoot him a quick reply, instructing him to be at my apartment no later than ten.

He shows up at my door at quarter ‘til ten, sporting fresh cuts and bruises on his knuckles and hands. At my alarmed stare, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Been hitting the weight bag.” He shrugs, as if it’s nothing, and squeezes between me and the door into the apartment.

“I’d hate to see how the bag looks.” I shut the door and lean against it. “Don’t you wrap your hands or something when you do that?”

I’m the first to admit I’m clueless about working out. The most exercise I get is on my arms, and that’s from moving one potato chip from the crinkly bag into my mouth. Oh, and my jaw. Chewing mouthfuls of chips definitely works out my mandible.

“Yeah, usually I wrap my hands.” He reaches for my face, moving a few loose curls aside and giving me a better view of his swollen knuckles. “How’s your head?”

“Better, not that you’d care.” I skirt around him to the bar and grab my purse.