Teach Me To Live (Teach Me - Book One) (2 page)

“W-what?” I feigned indifference, feeling my eyes grow wide as I reached for my folder and the pink inked pen that had clattered to the floor along with my folders dramatic descent. Could the man read thoughts for goodness sakes?

Shit, I wished I had balls. Really, a good set of lady-balls would get me far in this world.

“Do you actually want this paper? You don’t seem all that interested in filling out the application.” Well, I’ll be damned. He can read minds.

“What makes you say that?” My tone held an edge of tension he clearly ignored. One would think that growing up in a house of strict law would give me a sense of daunting authority. But nope, I’m about as intimidating as a kitten. Lucky me.

Intense cerulean eyes held my own as he replied. “You sat at that table for nearly forty minutes,” he pointed a long tatted finger behind me. I didn’t have to look to know he was pointing to the very table I had occupied, before dashing madly in a failed attempt to reach the door. “Not once did you actually put pen to paper.”

My heart picked up speed once again. My anxiety was returning. I grappled desperately for an answer. “I—I have a pink pen.” At his stupefied expression I hurried to continue. “Clearly, it would be inappropriate to apply for something so serious with a
pink
pen.” My defense was pathetic. But then I remembered what he’d said and I stiffened. “Wait? You were watching me?”

He shrugged, as though it weren’t serial killer kind of creepy that he’d watched me for forty minutes. I mean, the man had watched me as I struggled with what I knew was right and what I ached in the deepest part of my soul to do. There wasn’t an ounce of shame in his reply, regardless of the fact that I was definitely judging him.

“There’s something interesting about you.”

I twitched, contemplating bolting for the door in an attempt to escape this very odd, very handsome, very intriguing creature. Oh, he was also very forbidden, what with his tattoos and all. Still, my breath caught and my face heated at the meaning in his words.

“You watched me for
forty
minutes?”

“I already answered your question,” he grinned shamelessly. “But you have yet to answer mine.”

Once again, I frowned. I had a feeling that if I gave this man a chance, he could talk me into an inescapable loop of questions deserving of answers. Playing catch-up, I asked, “What?”

“Do you want to complete the application?” He asked again slower this time. “Do you
want
to go to University?”

“I,”
God, no.
University was the last place I wanted to go. I’d spent the last thirteen years in school, studying every night, and molding myself into the daughter my parents always dreamed they would have. I whispered a lie instead. Over time, lying simply became easier than truth. Lying was often less painful than truth.
Lying was safe.
“Of course, I want to go.”

A little of the light in his stunning blue eyes dimmed. I felt the most unexplainable, and intense desire, to call it back to the surface.

“Very well,” he handed me back the paper. I watched as he turned his back to me, moving toward the door. Then, shocking me once again, he spun around. There was a fire in his eyes now. In no way was I prepared for what he did next.

Plucking the pink pen from my lax fingers he pulled the cap off with his teeth. Catching my hand in his, the big strong expanse swallowed my small extremity. The instant his skin touched mine my heart leaped in my chest. My belly clenched tight at my core. He made me nervous. He made me feel all kinds of forbidden things—things I knew would shatter every beautiful opinion my parent’s had of me.

Things you have no business feeling, Madison. Get a grip, girl!

But seriously, everything about this man threatened every primed aspect of my planned and plotted existence. From his ‘I-don’t-give-a-shit’ disheveled onyx hair, to his intense blue eyes and half-cocked grin. Oh, holy heaven, that grin made me think of secrets. I couldn’t help but think that a man this beautiful and dangerous would, without doubt, own his fair share of secrets.

He would take my picture perfect life and toss it to the unpredictable wind.

Still, knowing these things with unquestioned certainty didn’t make me want to know him any less. In fact, I kind of suspect they were the catalyst to my newfound intrigue.

His eyes lifted to mine and I felt my breath hitch. I had a feeling his eyes were the kind of eyes one found themselves drowning slowly, and pleasurably, within. They caught you within their siren snare, holding you so tightly within their deceiving blue, that you wanted for nothing but to promise your last breath—your last thought, dream, and pleasure. They were like a vault filled with promise of abandon and excitement. But I knew if I opened the door and stepped inside the being within would capture my soul to keep.

His voice trampled the unwelcome thoughts sifting through my already scattered brain. “If you ever feel like living a little, give me a call.”

He dropped my hand and turned to the door once again. Honestly, I hadn’t planned on replying. The words simply flowed from between my lips as though sailing on their own irrational wave of bravery.

“I am living.” Truly, my reply was pathetic. And even more pathetic than the mousey sound of my statement, the cherry that topped the whipped icing on the cake—was the stinging pink pooling in my cheeks. I’m not a blusher. Honestly, I don’t typically allow myself to feel enough of, well, anything, to blush.

“You’re not,” his eyes scanned my face before he shook his head softly. He almost looked sad. “Not even close.”

“I’m breathing,” I announced pointedly. “I’d call that living.”

I don’t know if I was determined to make him see that I was alive or if I simply couldn’t fathom the idea of him walking out the door, and away from me. It was odd, this unexplainable connection I felt toward this dangerous stranger.

“Existing,” he corrected. I flinched at the stern sound of his voice. “Existing and living are two completely different things, sweetheart.” He nodded toward my hand where my skin was stained pink with the ink of his phone number. “If you ever find yourself tired of existing, and you want to live, all you gotta do is call.”

I didn’t have another chance to speak in my defense before he walked from the door and into the warm late spring sun. I supposed the whole dream of following after Daddy in a court of law, had just been abolished by a walking, talking, beautiful enigma of a man. I couldn’t even defend myself to a blue-eyed stranger. What in the world made me think I could be the daughter they so desperately want?

Shaking the thought from my mind, I pulled in a deep breath. Dragging the calm girl from within her place of hiding, I stepped from the coffee shop into the sun. Even though I searched the parking lot for the blue eyed man whose number stained my skin, and promise echoed in the back of my mind tempting me against all I knew was right, I didn’t see him.

As I made my way to my white Audi Q5, I tried with all my might to dismiss all the questions he’d stirred inside of me. I knew that although technically I was living, I wasn’t
actually
living. I was a breathing, eating, walking robot. But I wasn’t actually living. In the last thirteen years I couldn’t remember the last thing I did for myself.

Pulling the visor down I stared at myself in the mirror. My deep brown eyes were hollow. They were pretty, but they were dull. There was no shimmering spark that called the attention of those around me. There was no mysterious laughter hiding within the pools of mocha. There was just darkness. My brown hair was long and straight and thick. It reached to the middle of my back and I rarely ever wore it up. If I were telling the truth, I’d have to admit my hair was my cloak. It shielded me from inquisitive eyes and judgmental opinions. I wasn’t ugly. Actually, I was really quite pretty. I didn’t cloak myself in black to ward off strangers. Nor had I gone through the stage of smudged eye-liner. Frankly, girls who walked around looking like a creature on Halloween night freaked the crap out of me.

I am the daughter of a Judge.

My father, Judge Avery, is a law-abiding man of integrity and resoluteness. He raised me the right way. Not that I know what the right way is. We’re not necessarily religious. For my family the law is our religion. However, religious or not, I imagine that I have been raised in much the same way as a preachers daughter. Her shackles resemble my leash and we both live by the book. Albeit a different book, but it’s a book to which we blindly obey. We’re both bound by something we can’t argue or dismiss. Law and religion, what better prison?

She’s struggling with something I don’t understand. I might not be privy to her struggle, but if there’s one thing I understand, it’s internal confliction. Over the years, I’ve had my own fair share of troubles. But who the hell hasn’t? That’s life. You live, you fuck up, and you learn. Eventually, provided you’ve got time riding on your side, you get that shit right.

She’s got time. I can sense it. I know she’ll live a long life. A full life I’m not so sure about, but definitely a long one.

I’ve never seen her before and to be honest, I’m not really all that sure I actually want to see her again. She’s got this darkness inside her that’s crushing the little spirit she’s got left. It’s fucking depressing and God knows I’ve got enough disheartening in my ocean of life to wade through already. I don’t need her crap weighing me down. I knew that the instant I fixed my eyes on her, but yet, I just couldn’t force myself to look away. And hell, when she stood up to bolt like a bat out of hell from the café, I followed her like a moth to flame with no consequence of the very likely fact I’ll burn my already charred wings.

Even now, from where I sit on my bike watching her with my helmet drawn low, I can see she’s struggling with who she is and who she’s trying to force herself to be. I can’t help but wonder who she’s trying so hard for?

She hasn’t seen me. I’ve ensured my face was concealed prior to her joining me outside the café. I’ve also donned a black leather jacket, and as I sit, idling my bike, I can’t help but want to walk straight to the suburban door of her SUV and yank her from the driver’s seat.

I want to scream at her.

Here she is with this ability to live and breathe and experience
and she’s wasting it!
All those precious moments so many would kill for—I would kill for—and she’s tossing them away. She’s completely unaware of their significance.

Most people are unaware of the second hand ticking on a clock. Hell, most people count the fucking hours. One, two, three . . . eight hours until home. Eight hours until they can drive home and open the fridge for a can of beer. They’ll flick on the television set to watch—
who the hell cares?

They’re all wasting time. But when your time is limited, watching the clock or not, you can hear the second hand ticking. Tick, tick, tick. An hour passes by. Tick, tick, tick. The day’s over.

Your time, that time you once thought you were promised—it’s gone.